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Like the gingerbread man,
I was running, running, and running.
He does for his own life, while
I was searching, searching, and searching.

I always said I never had any place like home.

Little do they know that

I just meant I never had any place like a home.

My home was in one of the islands
of a warm archipelago,
where tall grass and sweet beets grow.
It was far from the spacious houses
some of my acquaintances boast.

Our garden was made of crops,
made of orchids, made of fruits
that we could hardly shape
into luxurious spheres of leaves
some of my acquaintances boast.

And maybe that's the reason
I just meant I never had any place like a home,
if you mean home
is composed only of rich families,
large houses, and luxurious gardens.

I was running, running, and running
away from the standards they set.
I was searching, searching, and searching
for the path taking me back to our
not-so-spacious house,
not-so-luxurious garden, and
not-so-rich family.

I never had any place like a home.
Mine was more than just a home.
Mine was a haven.

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