Home is a foreign land
That hurls the might of its confusion around the world
Strangers believe they know my bruises
The smallness of boxes they call eyes
And woo them into a false comfort
I will not live in boxes
They are not my home
Home is laughter
Home is rounded figures
Home is a sharpened mental weapon
To be wielded against foreigners of the spirit
I am tired of being different
My feet burn from the fires of those
Who have been anointed
With the certainty of origins
I will wander the earth
In search of my tribe
Or build it from the shreds of boxes
With my own hands
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Insightfully and apparently expressed, home is heaven for beginners. I feel inspired by your style of writing - rich in metaphors. Thanks for sharing Lebo.