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Harvest is over,Crops are in, andFalls's first killing frostStirs feelings of melancholySustained by winter's cold,With its bare trees,Migration, hibernation,Wisdom of fallow fields and
Oh Lord, I want to go back where I’m from before my hair turns grey Every day I think of my beautiful homeland that lies far away from here I miss the foggy mountains, the wide rivers, and the sunny fields
  The return of the rain heralds ages of growthwhere leaves left forgotten to their last ending goeth. The return of the rain hails the heel of old firesmakes moss meet to grow on tall boreal spires.
If there came a day Where life outran me I would return to my  Parents home Beaten by the world Weathered by time And caked in mud I would hang my head
Fireflies dance beneath the moonlight, Their little bulbs flashing bright. The crickets sing their favourite song, Encouraging me to sing along. The smell of flowers tints the air,
The warmth, the beauty of a true masterpiece The flow of the breeze, giving the leaves temporary wings The rustle, as they wage waer to stay firmly on the tree In the end a loss, and now must lay on the ground
We were once a people. We taught together. We fought together, For freedom. Our people won. Black teachers, doctors, politicians. The sky was the limit. We were family. Daddy was always there.
I am a product of the Earth, much like you. My people blossom in the motherland, soaking in the bright sun. Our vines weave around the rough terrain, entangling in each other We grow in these dense fields.
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