What kind of people are we, my son? We walk and run around the world. From generation to generation, we hurry aimlessly from place to place. We cannot stay in our homeland. We will leave our bones lying in the world's roads. We will advance as far as our eyes can see. We are everywhere except home! We have traveled so many roads that are now all mixed up. I have traveled to many countries and longed to return. And when I returned, I felt the urge to travel again to somewhere, anywhere in the world. Wherever you go, you want to be somewhere else. What a wish, what a desire, to roam the world! To escape forever or to rest from everything in a better place, a quieter place! If not abroad, then at home. Where does one find peace? Where? Abroad, at home, or in death? I want to write a poem about returning, but I am composing a poem about leaving.