Can there ever be a home away from home?

I felt it before, I cannot think enough to say there exists one.

But I ask an orphan who tells me otherwise.

The one who has never known what home is; knows what it exactly is.

Just as lively as my mother’s recipe and my father’s warmth she says;

The one who has never known what home is; knows what it exactly is.

I ask a traveler, and he tells me anywhere I set my foot shall be my home.

Anywhere air finds a way to fill the chills,

anywhere I welcome myself shall be home in itself.

I ask an old man where he thinks the home is,

and he says “away, away from where we are.”

His home lies in the leap of god and faith in heaven.

He says home is in the cries of his grandson sometimes but mostly in his experiences,

which he wishes to share.

For I shall ask a lover, he shall tell me in bits of the fading light when he shall see her.

And only when the moon arrives he can never tell her what he feels.

That feeling shall be his home.

If the sea was to be asked the shore would be his home.

And the sun shall be home to the comets.

Maybe home is never where it is expected.

Or home is carried within and be offered a room to stay for the night.

Or maybe home is exactly where home is.

Just lost in search of another.