I am going home, you said, I relish every word you left, bereft Of every one you didn’t yet And every one I didn’t coax out of you when I could. Those are the ones that might be wood. But it’s only straw instead. Home is it? and you insist, But when your heart stopped cold I missed The home at the part where your last breathe kissed This end of eternal sowing, sighed Into the harvest of your life There is not room for this. Where is home without you here It may sounds trite, but feels too clear To rise above cliches and fear That what fell down…