Some months and years ago we left
friends and family, we could not stay;
and going there sometimes we ache;
there was our Home, of which bereft
we will now be, always at bay.
Perceived by most as mad or brave,
we went like Cartier in his days;
recalling home, eager to make,
from then to forth, from breath to grave,
a side-way path with self-found ways.
So little time, so much to see,
still we settled – bills must be paid;
learned the culture, what we could take,
learned the language, the history;
in which tongue will our children play?
Here is our Home, and where we bide,
blending with years as odd mixtures,
we may ponder at our lives’ wake;
longing, and thrilled, we went, we tried!
Becoming for ever strangers…