Sometimes nostalgia is physical pain
This time of year
Certain smells
Snaches of Spanish
A memory of shoes

The freshness of a sundrenched morning
Covered in shards of frost
After slumbering under so many perfect stars
Unsullied by any pollutant

The clean smell of the hospital
The squeak of the floors
Silent, birghtly colored women lining the walls
Children clinging to thier backs

Walking a narrow, dusty paths
In sandals, just like the people
Winding forever beween homes and farms and villiages
Along the edges of the canyon

Feeding dogs, riding donkeys, herding goats
The people always watching
Am I her son, they ask
All they know is that I'm a stranger

But if I'm a stranger
Why does it feel like home?
Because I can never return as I was.
The people I know will not longer want me.

The place I love is lost to me.