My suns never found mountains to drown behind,
For steel minarets adorn my line of sight.
The thought, not a complaint or grievance. I wail
But a plea for mountain-bent rays of light.
No waist-high grass to find my way through;
No freshly dug out mud to roll over and hear
Chides of sickle-wielders to whose land we were cruel;
No breaking of a heart, but a summoned tear.
Broken horizons, painted carefully by
Artists of silver steel and red bricks.
Broken youth, drowning carefully in
Syringes, packets and alcohol kicks.
Sounds of chirping birds abound fade
Into loud chokes of rusted mechanics.
A whiff of smoke attempting to replace
Salty air’s intoxicating licks.
The scent of stale home on foreign soil.
In home-scented air rings a sobriquet-
In the voice of a mocker- ‘Gods own Country!’
To plastic grounds and skies turned grey.
But still, to be there makes my lips a valley.
Greeted by hollow eyes but wide smiles
From strangers who share blood. They ignore,
The years- our walls- the million miles.
My Querencia 