Needing a bit less,
I wanted to discover myself.
Raise the chimney.
The house in on fire.
The door sleeps in the room.
Sun will find no corner
to sit. Can you call a cloud
to make the floor wet?
The knuckles come alive, rap
the window to stay calm. Someone
had knocked out the space
and coming in to meet the hunger.
A shrine has asked the roads
to be washed with tears of pilgrims
who had come from the faraway
hymns of darkness to script the light.
I am carrying the seeds of my
native place to find the roots.