Stranger In Homeland Poem by Prasanta Behera

Where are the dusts that covered the path
the broken pots sprinkled like a painters art
the morning smoke from the thatched huts
the jingle bell of cows and goats
the children who played with balls of straw
the old faces who sat under the tree
smoking pipe, telling stories of old and wise.

All those memories of past
I see no more
strolling across the narrow path.
The roads are cleaner
no small stream to cross over
the jingles are gone
the children stay home alone
The roots of banyan tree hangs low
old faces have become ghosts
no more stories to be told.

An air of strangeness breaths inside
no one seem notice of my stride
Unlike days of yore
my presence is no uproar.
The faces are hidden
piercing eyes gleam unbidden.
How can I convince this is mystead
the dusts of old still bled
I am no stranger of this realm
I danced also in the summer rain.

I have become a stranger.
I have become to stranger
of my own land
to myself again!