Home is far away, and I have never been there.
Home is some fantastic scenery, strange skies, strange suns.
Home is wild with beaches, cliffsides, oceans bright like laquer, like nacre, mountaintops with glaciers, with tundras.
Home is impossible. Home is inhuman. I long to stretch my cesious wings into its cool air. I long for this paradoxical homecoming.
Home is long ago into the future, and I have never been there, nor built it yet.
And will I? Will I yet be born, and live?
I face the seed's dilemma, dropped on unfertile soil.
I face the egg's journey, rolling hapless down a mountainside.
I am a frog, entombed in my own mucus, waiting for the rain. I am a brine shrimp.
Lichlike, I would rise now from my future grave,
Boiling over with seafoam power,
Bones assembled from dust-to-be,
Burning with a phoenix-fire.
I will build that homeworld yet
- its strange skies, its cool, fresh air -
to know that it exists somewhere -
some far sunrise, some pending sunset.