The Northeast — it calls to me. 

Walking under the trees of the Fresh Green Woods,

I hear it whisper softly.

Passing over the swaying rice of the Autumn Fields,

I hear — it calls to me, it calls to me.

The land of Mountain Shapes where the mist hangs down. 

The place of Stone Hands where the waves crashing sound. 

It lulls me to dream, the wonders held in the Great Northeast. 

To the Imperial Land of Shrines,

Where poets once wandered in the Deep North,

To see the Isles of Pines.

To the Isle of land called Blest,

Where volcanic steam rises and pools in five colors shine, 

To bid the wanderer’s heart to rest

In the water, through the air,

Over hills and across the fields,

The Northeast calls to me. 

And I, to where the road leads next, cannot say.

I heed the Northeast’s call.

“Remember, remember,” it calls to me. 

I cannot stay, I cannot go,

It calls to me, it calls to me.

Across the sea, in foreign lands,

This voice, this life, this memory. 

I have known the Rising Sun, and even as it sets, 

I will come to it again

— It calls to me. 

By Kate Linsley, June 2020.