The migrant walks,
walks alone.
Blisters on his feet,
the debilitating heat;
He walks unabated,
he walks alone.
But, wait a minute –
he’s been walking for years,
Homesick for a world-
A world before he was born.
For a place he’s never known,
For a comfort never his own,
A warmth never experienced,
A blanket never worn.
For him, this is not a journey new,
Or a fresh perspective or view,
The truth is: he’s perpetually been on the journey,
A journey to ‘not being’,
To undo what his parents did-
To survive, he tried, tried in vain,
Dear World, he said –
It’s time to be unborn again.
PS : The migrant here wants to be unborn as opposed to dying; the distinction is important; Dying and all that comes with it is not something he feels worthy of. He just wants to disappear in a crack somewhere in the world, in other words, be unborn.
