Although I think it might be nice
To live in northern Spain,
I know full well that paradise
Is something else again.

It’s not a place to which you go
Before or after death;
It’s where you know you know you know
With each and every breath.

As such, it doesn’t matter where
I get to lay my head;
My own true home’s the very air
In which I make my bed.

That’s not to say I won’t leave now
For Santiago or Bilbao.

Photo by Clay Banks on Unsplash

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *