Somewhere in the eastern hills, With changing leaves and ripened harvest fields, A fading women lived alone. She was skin and bones. Before they dug her grave, When her manuscripts had been bound and saved, Her final words were spoken slow: "I'll never leave my home. This is my home because I call it home, And it'll burn like Rome before I go." How to justify my eyes? Cold and simple, drifting as the crow flies "Let me go to where I will, And let the earth stand still." But who am I to fly? Have I no task to keep me by her side? When all I see is all I know, I want to know my own. This is my home because I call it home, And it'll burn like Rome before I go. Don't act as if it's all or none. I won't find my place just by crossing oceans And I won't be guiltless if I run, 'Cause this is my home.