I write because I read. I read because I write.
As of the moment
You surely know how
our hands feel powerless,
as if we sailed too far
from our familiar land,
stuck amidst the blue
vast sea of uncertainty
we are not sure how
deep, how long will this
salted wilderness be.
An anchor weighs heavy
yet can keep ships steady
amidst a brutal shore.
You’re mine and more.
Here are my palms lifted
as far as one can reach,
open our ears, our hearts for
the lessons You want to teach.
—
He walks ahead of me
with his old rucksack
and a carton box
he asked from
a store owner
politely.
A couple, giggling in front
of him, stopped laughing
to cross the road, perhaps
afraid of his dirt-filled
skin.
I trace his steps
under the faint moonglow
not to say a shy hello,
but to murmur a silent prayer
that he is off to
a roof where his
family’s love
flows,
until he stops
in an unlit corner of
the almost empty
walkway, tear his precious
box and make his bed
until the next
day.
My heart, a foreigner
on this man’s motherland,
aching to
come back home,
now breaks for him,
living in his country,
but without a house to call
his own.
—
anmol(alias HA)