He knew nothing but his home, and his home was the land.

It raised, clothed and fed him, and he unto it.

He was a piece of the whole, like a finger to the hand.

It was vast, extending from each horizon, it was infinite.

He was torn from the land, plucked from its grip.

It withered, raged and weapt, and so too did he.

He longed for his home, like a sailor longs for his ship.

It was lost, decayed and died, and fell to debris.

He returned from the foreign lands, a victor of combat.

It was different.  His home was not his own.

He returned to his lands, but they were not as they were before. 

It was foreign too.  As foreign as the war zone.

He just wants to go back home.

What ever happened to home?