Home

To the dream

We never own,

Our limbs die,

Every inch for some smile

We never share.

What’s this dream

That’s not ours

But orders us to jump

Into some ordinary lives

We never want.

Our footprints 

Are some tire marks;

Our beads of sweat

Are bottled as scent,

We never sense.

Our notebooks

Are not histories

But the lines on our palms

Are our fates

We never understand.

What veda is this

Of tailed heads;

What upanishad is this

Of turbaned heads,

We never read.

Our answers 

Are not to walk new roads

But to mend the broken ones

And share the destinies 

We always do.

 

Our guns 

Are not to hide our fears

But to chop down your horns;

Just Come down to our arms,

We mean every word.

These fences

That divide us;

We change them to doors

That join our rooms,

We are home.