They say that the heat can make you sick,
And I suppose in my case they’re right.
Fluttering heart and sweats at night,
Gut sinking like I’ve swallowed a brick.
I was born in an icy place of trees and crop,
Where irises and mulberries and hyacinths bloomed.
And yet in this land of sun a part of me feels doomed,
As if some impending warhead is soon to drop.
My skin is both flushed and pale with grief,
Yet my family won’t listen to me when I say,
“We must return home, it’s the only way!”
This scorching world is home in their belief.
Perhaps my lens of my old homestead is rosy,
But the knowledge of that does not make me cozy.