Kansas, the place where my fathers’ fathers have made home.
A place where on the prairie, the buffalo roam.
But the place of Kansas where I lay in bed
Is much different but the voices of my fathers still sing in my head.
This place in Kansas, the place I call home.
The prairie has disappeared, the buffalo do not roam.
This place in the town of Overland Park,
Where the lights of the buildings hide the stars in the dark.
This place, where my children will say their father called home.
The buffalo are gone, the cars take over the land and begin to roam.
I look out my window and the flatness of Kansas still calls to me.
Like a sailor looking toward the vast,
open,
dark depths of the sea.
The houses in the neighborhoods go on forever and ever.
But below this fake horizon, there is much more to devour.
This place is special and in my heart it will always have a home,
Where imagination and love are never far, but always allowed to roam.
We all come from different backgrounds, ethnic groups, and race,
But our hearts in my hometown all beat the same pace.
For this is the place my fathers’, fathers and I have now made home,
We are all like buffalos; Overland Park is our area that we are free to roam.