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In my imaginings of home,
Place and identity, a door opens.
And I see the old country,
The one I left behind.

The house at that dusty Street
Where memories are located
Stares at me; its eyes impassive.

When I left years ago,
I left the door unlocked
So I may return.

But uncertainty assails me
As I contemplate return.
Could I, in my exile-altered state,
Belong again?

Written by: Dollin Holt

Author: admin

I am a member of the WRR editorial team.

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