"These are not my stars," she said,
Looking up into the night,
"This is not my sky.
Why have you brought me here, my love,
Where the air is strange and the world frozen?
Where the birds come in only monochrome?
Why have you brought me here?"
"This is where you're from, my dear," I told her promptly,
"This is where your roots are,
This is where you were born,
I thought you'd be happy to see it again."
"It's not that I'm not happy here," she responded quietly,
"It's that here my blood runs cold and the woods are silent,
When I'm here I can't hear my heartbeat on the wind.
There's no fire in the bush,
No flood on the land."
"You could relearn it here, my love," I whispered,
"And learn to live here again like before."
"Of course I could," she replied,
And looked at me with a saddened smile,
"I can probably learn to live anywhere,
But when I'm there,
I'm alive and I belong somewhere."
"But emotions and attachments are ephemeral, love,
What you feel for him now might be ripped form you again."
"Life is too short to be afraid of the unknowable, my dear,
We've been afraid for so long.
Look up into this sky and tell me what you see."
I did then as she asked me,
Turning my face away from the mirror
And looking up into the night,
"You're right," I whispered to myself,
"These are not my stars."
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