I am home and they are still here
These streets still scarred
These hills still in reverie
Which one is more sore?
The broken strings of your guitar
Or the broken notes of their Pena
This is hour for wounds and maiming
There will be a time for mending and healing
There will be hours for mantra and magic
Of course I wait for the Maibi
Who feels the meagre pulse on my wrist
And tells the fortune of this land
She tells over my body
The fever of this land
My pulse, the broken throb of our antique drum
My bosom, the angst of a missed progeny
M y forehead, the warmth of the fresh pyre
The malady of this land is mine
This home gave us everything
A corner to live and die
A corner to croon and sigh
Though it could never give a tiny corner
To rest at long last
Broken bones of our hearts
Your home has given you a corner to live and die, and a corner to croon and sigh. But how do you define the barbarism and 'animal lifestyle' out there? A thing is not necessarily true if a man dies for it. I can feel your desperation yet I'd like to assure you that a thing is always true if we believe in it. And I believe the broken bones of your heart are becoming conspicuous, simply because you are there. You are there! Nobody feels it that way, except you
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