So, where is home?
Home is where the dust cries
In a foreign land
Where we shall come to know the bitterness of exile.
And yet, where is this home?
It is inside the mustard seed
Where only the dying can see –
If we are to poeticize these inkwells
With an altruistic art,
We must become the pen
Upon this page of forceful doubts.
Only then shall we come to light this