I don't have anything mine
here, permanently;
not even my hometown
no home or hearth
nor do I have my life affixed
at one station
like the poor peasants
contented more even with the little with their peace of mind.
A modern nomad lotering
in this wonderland, I am well-civilized, cultured
in my fashionable attire,
with abundance of amenities
with no peace,
and comforting stability
like millions, trillions of the people
wandering hither and thither
with whirling wanderlust, births after births,
and deaths after deaths...
I am an unrealized soul,
so freaky as aimless flying birds
not to be caught,
tamed and put into a golden cage;
for I have the wanderlust
for heavenly realm
for eternal, divine permanency.
Ah, this is a poem with which all of us who have migrated for various reasons to other places (also a given these days!) will identify with! Loved the last stanza! A great poem on modern life and living Bhaskarji, with an existentialist touch! Kudos and respects.
