There are at least six of us tonight

looking out the window at a foreign sky

who last night had dreams of another land

the one that saw our birth and holds our love

and our hate, and the people in our heart

and all that we gave seeking this promise.

I remember our youth with its promise

how we’d talk deep, broad, into the night

of the deepest desires of our heart,

the crumbling of our castles in the sky

or how all would be well when we found love

and a job, a future, in the promised lands.

How we derided and scorned our troubled land

trapped between seas and dry of promise

—what rage and scorn in that ripe age of love—

for all that we could dream, it could benight;

we felt drowned under the weight of its sky

and the discontent would gnaw at our hearts.

It was fertile ground, then, our tender heart

for the seed to grow, to pine for a land

full of freedom and with an open sky

to develop our talent and promise,

to walk and enjoy without fear at night,

or fear in daylight when we found love.

And perhaps each of us has found much love

but not without bruises upon our heart

not without staying up late at night

fearing we’d be disallowed from these lands

when we were so close to that life promised

—we know well these heavy clouds in our sky.

Maybe today we looked at this other sky

and we found a new note in our love

mixed with nostalgia, perhaps, a promise

to see again those we hold in our hearts

and cherish those we’ve found in these lands

before the past swallows them in its night.

Under this foreign sky I pour imperfect my heart

with words of love for you, who remember that land,

who hold on to a promise, who’ll dream again tonight.