In the quiet dusk, I tread alone,
Paths once vibrant, now overgrown,
Memories whisper through the trees,
Echoes of laughter carried by the breeze.
The old oak stands, a guardian wise,
Beneath its boughs, where truth lies,
Shadows of childhood play in the light,
Dreams and hopes, taking flight.
The hearthâs warm glow, a beacon bright,
Guiding me through the darkest night,
Walls that witnessed joy and strife,
Cradle of my tender life.
I return with weathered hands,
To this sacred, loving land,
Home is where my heart does know,
In its arms, I find my glow.