Finding Home
These lines are the shores where boys left
When they decided to beat the wind
Flying with their mother's wings
When they journey the ends of the sky
To view home and its beauty from afar
When tomorrow comes, they shall reminisce this night
For it shall join them on their quest to finding home
These lines holds the memories of those boys
Who went hunting for the stars
To fetch wisdom from another world
And to learn the trade of ignorance
Hoping to find home in home
Tomorrow shall break the yolks of home on the cradles of their hair
At a solemn junction where night would kiss darkness
And they shall set enterprises on the faces of love and
togetherness
I'm the chronicles in the book of chronicle
Written by a boy who harbours death in his teeth
For fear of chewing himself into broken memories
I'm the song in the mouth of those maidens
Who live in the world after the world in their legs
For fear of being the verses in their mother's elegy
Somewhere in the tales of my palms lies a lost poem
I search it's authorship to where my father's shadow died
They said home sits deep in the heart of men
I wore my father's shadow and became alive
With my back faced southwards,
I became a pillar of silence and healing
I played life with the strings of fate
And became a hymn in the mouth of my father's mate
I held the voice that speak through the moon
To my heart, where the city has become a deity
Home finds its way to a man's head
When he remembered how his mother became psalms of memories
Home is sinking somewhere in a boy's body, dilapdating his skin
If you must find home, you must learn the language of silence
I became a wor(l)d made of sentences, finding its way to a boy's tongue
But therein resides a burning river that leaves ashes of dreams
At the middle of every t(h)reat.
How does a boy becomes man overnight
Without breaking into thorns that turned virgins to whore?
How does he recite the epistles on his sister's skin
Without loosing himself to the wind, bit by bit?
How does he finds home
Without defeating the storm, trailing her curves?
To live is to draw the day of inanimation nearer
The path that leads to life is a home made of sordid poems
With bluntly blur verses and beautified lines
A boy may pick a home in his dreams
But, without making landmarks of solace
His dream may not be seasoned with reality to live the pages of existence
He must first live, in the pages of reality
Maybe somewhere, on the street of colourful dreams
This is how to find home
Crawl yourself into silence
And carve for yourself, a earth that never sleep
Fan your sweats into dreams
And lost yourself in the ectacy of time
For, you don't define the path that leads home
Without growing into the rose, that carries your mother's smell
Break the image of those beings that stares back
Each time you look into the life of a mirror
Break them into verses and languages
And into dreams and solitudes
To find home is to break those shadows
That follows you in every step of life's race
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