Making Contact

(A translation from the Voynich Manuscript)

I have grown so tired of this human existence
I want to return to my home,
There is little more for me to do here
And I can hear my ancestors calling,
I long to hear the cry of native birds
And the sound of water in the stream,
These things that I can also do here
But that are just not the same,
My home is under the double star
And the beauty of the star clusters,
Fill the yellow sky with wonder,
Outside this place in Andromeda
Where I will once again sit and play the guitar.
Tomorrow I will try to make contact.