Visitors

The thought that there could exist a home forever

The one forever which might never exist,

The flood takes over everything,

The house of a poor and a rich

The house of small ant-hill,

And the one that is mine.

If all we’re just visitors

Could never we know which stay was promising

I the woman, owns no property

Neither of my father’s nor this body

Where do I find this home?

Has anyone found where there home is yet?

This idea being visitor is not much comforting,

But there is no wisdom walking cold feet,

Let there be, the destination for one’s walking is an undwelled scenery,

But as there is warmth in walking

Which makes breathing a little to ease.

-Manisha Yadav