I write and write, but curses, blights,
Cannot alleviate the pain
The words are naught but hieroglyphs
Just scratches of ink spent in vain,
I pour myself out, there’s yet
So much, so much stilll locked inside.
It wells, it swells to burst- my heart!
My mind and soul are not complied
With each other, the therapy,
How I heal pain I cannot bear
The catharsis is flawed today
The broken lines cannot repair
The despair, the abandonment
A stranger in a stranger land,
It seems I have but lost my way
Following footprints in the sands
And now, the prospect where I stand
Is beautiful- for me, subdued
Tho’ seen from an objective view
Is breathtaking and many hued
But I still long for that one place
Whatever colors it may wear
No mind to its grey shades sometimes-
oh! for just one mere square
Acre of my own native earth!
Mere dirt to others, but my home!
My soil, my hearth, the town, it’s hills
My sky, my sea, the waves, their foam..
I am not ungrateful at all
I have enough to not want more
but in moments of emptiness
I long for my own fragrant shores
So when the dark is imminent
The world dimmed, the end near, nigh
That some day, I’ll go back where
I ached and yearn to live, to die.
And then I know I’ll be at peace
Buried in own my clay, my rain
Turn to dust in my own dust,
– I know i will be home again.
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