I’ve made a new friend recently,
She’s from a land of olive trees with a sapphire sea.
“A refugee,” she introduces herself.
"Carrying stories of home, though it no longer carries me.”

She tells me of hills kissed by the sun;
Of stories her Sitti wove, one by one.
I showed her our mango tree, ripe with glittering gold,
Even introduced to her a song my lola taught me.

I passed her the chalk and asked if she’d like to draw with me,
The wall remained blank for a moment,
Then slowly, her hands begin to trace,
A home, a river, a familiar place.

Her fingers trembled, yet the lines are clear,
A village, a sky, a world so dear. 
"Here," she points out, "is where I belong." 
And in her eyes, I see the strength of a song.

It took a moment for me to understand— 
Home is not a place, but the love we withstand.

- Beatrice Diane D. Bartolome
(Illustration by Miles Munich Montreal Jimenez/FEU Advocate)