Stranger in homeland (poem)
Stranger in homeland (poem) --------------------------------------- Where are the dusts that covered the path the broken pots sprinkled like a painters art the morning smoke from the thatched huts the jingle bell of cows and goats the children who played with balls of straw the old faces who sat under the tree smoking pipe, telling stories of old and wise. All those memories of past I see no more strolling across the narrow path. The roads are cleaner no small stream to cross over the jingles are gone the children stay home alone The roots of banyan tree hangs low old faces have become ghosts no more stories to be told. An air of strangeness breaths inside no one seem notice of my stride Unlike days of yore my presence is no uproar. The faces are hidden piercing eyes gleam unbidden. How can I convince this is my stead the dusts of old still bled I am no stranger of this realm I danced also in the summer rain. I have become a stranger. I have become to stranger of my own land to m...
