How small the town
-Just an atom of the big city's complexity
How slow the pace
-Unlike the wild, mad scamper of city life
Yet, though young, blood boil with unborn vigour,
My heart says: "there is Home"
Why should it be that youth, so free
So fast and full with life
-As yet unsoured by disillusionment-
so one with city's speed and its anonymity
Should prefer this town, so chasm-separated from the other
'Tis not town itself, surely;
Its shares don't equal the city's artifices
-But yet, they tug and say: "We watched you grow and play" -
'Tis not laziness,
For youth's idealism rushes more-
but yet it show how slows the feet
And says: "To this place were you born."
Perhaps it is the solidarity
Or the depth of friendship,
The "everyone knows each other,"
The honesty or rural simpleness
Of a philosphy that has the depth of soil
And not of book and bottle
Yes, maybe these
Yet, no. For that can't be complete.
Why hesitate? You're home. Speak free.
Ah, yes! 'twas in this town I saw my spirit to unfold itself and spread.
And in this place my father lives and makes this living and his life
For as the body in respose curls into womb shape as before
The mind in peace longs for its native habitat;
And as the homing dove does ever to its wanted loft return,
The whole man longs for its guiding mentor's presence once again.