Found my grandmother's letters in a shoebox, Written in a script I barely recognize, Speaking of olive groves and limestone walks, And stories buried beneath foreign skies. Three thousand years of footsteps in the dust, Calling me home to a place I've never been. I'm going back, going back, To where my blood first learned to flow, Through ancient streets my heart might know, If I listen close enough. Going back, going back, To find the pieces of my soul. The passport feels heavy in my trembling hands, Like carrying the weight of all who came before, Their dreams dissolved in distant, foreign lands, Now I'm the one who gets to walk their shore. Three thousand years of longing in my chest, Pulling me toward what I've always missed. I'm going back, going back, To where my blood first learned to flow, Through ancient streets my heart might know, If I listen close enough. Going back, going back, To find the pieces of my soul. What if the land doesn't recognize me? What if I'm just a tourist in my own history? But maybe... maybe that's okay. I'm going back, going back, To where my blood first learned to flow, Through ancient streets my heart might know, If I listen close enough. Going back, going back, To find the pieces of my soul. Three thousand years... Leading me home.
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