I'm going home.
It's time for me to go home.
Not to the farm with snow all around,
The smells of food filling the house while we sit by the fire.
Not to the mountains, where I can look across the valley
to the jagged peaks, silent in the morning.
Not to the seaside village, standing on the dock
Watching a fishing boat sailing off in the misty morning.
I'm going to my home across the sky.
Every night I stand here on the
Earth and point to a star.
On that star is a carriage, waiting outside the gates to the city.
It arrives every day at three o'clock in the afternoon
drawn by two horses.
And when the sun goes down it leaves, empty.
This ritual has been going on for many,
many, many years. That carriage waits for me.
And on the day I arrive back on that star,
I will climb into it and gallop away from the city
across the blue hills to where the trees end.
There, at the edge of time,
is a cabin made of white wood facing the other side of the sky.
I'm going home.