Last night I dreamed I was back in Pola,
lying on the bed where I used to sleep,
in the old house made from trunks of Narra.
There were strangers who were welcoming me
“You’re finally home,” they said, “You’re the boy
who was brought here when you were just three months
old.” Indeed, I recognized the same house
by the sea, the sound my Grandma makes as
she sweeps the street in the early morning,
the gentle rhythm that used to calm me.
But not last night in my dream as I was
restless. And I shouted at the strangers.
“Where is she? Take me to her! This is not
my home!” And I woke up and clutched your hand,
thinking, my home is wherever you are.
