There is a country called 'Somewhere',
built from a map I have never held,
a sudden, sharp ache in the quiet hours,
a memory of a place where I never dwelt.
I long for it like madness, like a homeward cry,
under an unfamiliar, waking sky.
A quiet waits there, deep and profound,
a stillness that carries no heavy weight,
the kind of peace that heals old scars,
settling the soul at an ancient gate.
The serenity I have chased through the years,
distilled into mist, washing away all tears.
The Waters: Still and reflective, holding the sky.
The Mountains: Silent giants, rising up high.
The Trees: Ancient guardians, whispering low.
And the flowers—they spill in a riot of grace,
a breathless galore across the green space.
Is it real, this wild, unvisited shore?
Can earth hold the colors that burn in my chest?
Or do they fade when we walk through the door,
existing only when the mind is at rest?
Perhaps it’s a compass, this dream you hold tight—
a real place waiting just out of your sight.
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