Where is home, if it is not with you
In whatever dark land where we wander?
Where the alien hills we travel through
Faintly echo with a distant thunder;
Where the ghost of some odd friend we knew
Shows up on a half-deserted street,
Waves, but has another thing to do
In this pleasant country of defeat.

Where we are, though, always was the center,
Where your index points from, as does mine,
And whatever strangerhood we enter
Now, deictic, changes to a sign
We were never strangers, always here,
Even in this December of the year.

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