Where stone towers in wild spikes into heaven like a bread knife, the clouds sticking between it's wobbly teeth. Where your feet carry you too fast and your eyes never have enough time to really see and the steep slopes grumble their morning mishaps into hiking boot souls; the grass sighing contentedly.
This is where I see everything, where I've found a second home: a world where valleys roll out like dough colored alive and vineyards spike the wild too-tall trees. This world here has wrinkled eyes, and knowing hands that see the way that life just spans... forever. And the things I tend to think at times like these are how hard it will be to please my two-tongued soul: for every tongue comes with slight differences in taste.
Germany spoils me like a clueless child, the (grand)fatherland with kisses and tones so mild, love so wild, that being ripped from it's soil may cripple me a while.
You see, I just want both with all of the people, the language, the food. But then again together, were neither the same--it would be a rude immitation without the same name.
And I love the US, believe me, I do. I often sing undertone of red, white, and blue. My sweet apple pie promise, a silly illogical world, it needs some help, maybe, but you gotta love it's twirling heart, swinging in open circles and looking at the sky, just wants to get dizzy, never meant to lie. It is warm and big, and proud, big mouth too--it's thinking for the good, it tries to sing on the right key, and it's not always right on but eventually, I believe it will find that with practice.
I love these two places, miles apart. Both homes, both beautiful, both made with the hands from the heart.
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