Hunger is the clock we live by
Its chimes we cannot ignore
Sensuality is a secret pleasure
We cannot tell the world
Where does this sense of exile
Come from when we have no home
To go back to or recall with love?
We cannot take refuge in Nature
As it too turns the rooted to refugees
All of us are migrants from somewhere
Like birds, fleeing winters or worse
But we cannot go back like them,
It is good to know the sun will burn out
And even the earth we cannot call home.
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