I missed home in London,

missed Abertawe in Lancaster,

missed my father in the unwanted streets

of my asylum called mind.

I missed my laughter in this flat

I now call home,

that was shaped as such by him

I now call my brother:

A quick transition, I must admit,

from a stranger to an alien wind,

so precious for my life to sustain tonight.

I was awarded the Nobel in my dreams,

the Ph.D. followed-by, the smiles of

my dead father I see in the windowpanes,

and my stranger stood there, crying.

He celebrated India in my talks, though

Nepal was the place he aspired to be,

I no longer care about countries

as long as he is there, building my character.

The other night I saw Lucknow laughing at me,

Abertawe playing jokes on me,

the other day my brother left.

He’s still there, somewhere,

yet I await the knock on my door,

it’s a different kind of happiness I don’t

wish to explain, don’t wish to live anymore,

for I know it won’t last for long,

my ephemeral present tense.

It’s about time when I tell you that

my vulnerabilities have been risen:

this stranger has taken birth in

places reserved for men and women

judged and re-judged for years

in my idle hours of critiquing.


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