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.