Souls like us haven’t a home,
We wander afar and go it alone.
Finding new friends, and places to settle,
Tempting the furies and testing our mettle.
The road is our mistress, she beckons us ever,
We birds of a feather, apart or together.
Driven by wonder-lust, longing to know,
If only to feel – dark, warm, high or low.
Home is not found wherein lies the heart,
Nor is bound to a place, like a home or a hearth.
Unlike those others, our mothers and brothers,
Our paths are unlike our comrades’ and lovers’.
For we can see what they might not perceive,
That meaning is found as we take our leave.
As we wander afar and go it alone,
For souls like us, no place is home.