My home is there

My home is there, my home is there –
among the tunes spread in the air,
among the magic fires of town
like brilliant stars which scattered down.

My home is there up on a hill,
where all around is quiet and still.
This silence is deceptive, though –
the stormy life sounds there below.

My home is there, I hear that cry
of waves echoing through the sky.
I smell the dust of the quite square
and crowded streets. My home is there,

where town fuss bursts upon my eyes
and where virtue gets on with vice,
the moon hides in the cloudy night
its shining mask grown cold with fright.

As long as all they talk of you,
you are not dead, you are not through.
They speak my name, and I go on
my living where there is my home.

My home is there, it's there and I
want it to keep me like a sigh,
a leaf that falls upon the ground,
invisible in a step around.

Accept it such as it is! So
it doesn't care if I must go.
A slice of bread with me to share
it's handing out... My home is there.