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
