The river knows no border, it flows where it must.
In foreign rooms at midnight, in quiet words I trust.
A mother speaks in vowels that distance cannot dull,
Her blessing in the morning, a shadow light and just.
From hills of pine and silence to towers of steel and glass,
I walk between two languages, in ink and wandering dust.
Call me by name or silence, I answer just the same;
Home is the song we carry, not what we left to rust.