The walls fell first, the roof gave way,
Ash where laughter used to stay,
Maps were redrawn overnight,
Borders burned by borrowed right.
They told me, Run, the ground is cursed,
But leaving felt like something worse.
I packed my fear, I carried grief,
But left one thing beneath my feet.
Home is not a place on stone or land,
It’s the line you draw and still defend.
It’s the name you speak when all is gone,
The vow you keep when hope moves on.
You can take my roads, my roof, my flame—
But not the ground where I remain.
The hearth is cold, the songs are thin,
Ghosts sit where the living’d been,
Every step away feels clean,
Every step back cuts too deep.
They call it pride, they call it fear,
I call it why I’m still here.
I’ve lost the world I used to know,
But not the thing I won’t let go.
Home is not a place they can erase,
It’s the promise I refuse to trade.
It’s the silence holding shattered names,
The last true thing the fire couldn’t take.
You can break the door, the sky, the throne—
But not the truth I call my own.
Let empires move like passing storms,
Let history forget our forms—
I’ll stand where memory still breathes,
And call that home until it leaves.
Home is not where safety lies,
It’s where you stand when courage dies.
Not built of brick, nor crowned by peace,
But what you guard when all else leaves.
I won’t abandon what I am—
So here I stand.
