For it felt, as if
The windmills sensed my sorrow,
The trees faked a smile upon my departure,
And the mountains held me by their hands and begged me to stay.

But every bird must leave the nest it calls home.
The wind bid me adieu with a gentle breeze,
The grazing cattle nodded along in understanding,
And fields swayed along to the breeze blowing past them.

A certain beauty about one's home,
Is that even a ray of sunshine can make an unforgettable memory.

A small drizzle comes my way,
Upset that I was leaving but wishing me safe travels ahead.

A silent promise was made that day, to never forget,
My nest, my paradise, my home.

Wistful goodbyes are left on a joyful note,
So one may have happy travels ahead,
But even the sky was a paler shade of blue that day.

The plains and woodlands around me stretch far into the horizon,
Which leaves me wishing I had stayed around longer.

It was ironic, truly.
Everyone wishes to leave the nest they call home when they are in it, yet when it is, indeed, time to go, leaving is the single hardest thing to to.

I pass by a field of daffodils in full bloom,
However, they too seemed to be upset with my departure,
Their heads dipped low.

A small stream follows me beside the road,
A welcoming sight in a sea of concrete.

As I kept going further away from my paradise, the scenery was getting desperate.
The mountains looked misty and foreboding.
The wind started getting desperate.
A gentle drizzle turned into a storm.

Fog and mist started forming around tree plantations.
Soon, I entered unknown land,
And all the trees of fire that I had passed had soon faded into withering corpses of a land once known as a jungle.

Yet now, the mighty jungle that once ruled this foreign land had been reduced to a pile of cement and people.
I still live in this pile to this day,
With only the occasional glance back home.

– Maya Desdemona