Passport and identity.

Call me "expatriate",
Third culture kid is the term,
Little did I know it would put my personality in a third world state,
A foreign native
I'm a living, breathing paradox,
Born on Texas soil,
Raised to sing of the maroon and white
And I will, proud as any.
Ale každý deň stále necítim American,
And for those of you unfamiliar with slavic dialects:
It means I don't fit in.
See, I am an expatriate,
A person who lives outside their native country,
But now I'm confused,
Where am I an expatriate?
It's the stamps in my passport that define me,
More than the seal on the cover
Or the name and number in the front.

I've wondered this earth,
I've climbed Tratra mountains,
Breathed the wind of endless savannah plains,
Tasted the saltiest oceans, cried at the sight of the clearest nights
I knew travel before I knew words,
I realized I'm the smallest unit of the most complex masterpiece
God has blessed this diverse universe with
People, places, sights and smells
One can never define in thousand pages,

Red dirt, red sunsets of a hundred horizons
is just as much a part of me as the blood in my veins,
Oh call me "expatriate",
"Alien" will do,
To where? Anywhere. Everywhere!
I'm at home in the world as much as I'm not,
I belong beyond the clear dark sky,
Sure I've got numbers that a make me a country's,
But man existed before border and boundaries,
My ID is not my idea of an identity,
You'll find me where I have tobacco to smoke,
At last I will identify with the the old German baroque:
"On land, on sea, at home, abroad, I puff my pipe and think of God."