The Native Refugee Poem by Thavaseelan Gopinathan

This is my land, I was born here,
buried my grandfather here, south to his grandfather,
and right next to my father.
The right yard's mine, I whispered to my son,
no the yard's mine,
contested the elders and my other bloodlines.

To the west of my families' yard, lies our field,
century more has passed,
thrice an acre, cloths and feeds us still.
Up in the fields north,
presides my holy deity, guarding my forest and my lake.

Legendary was her beauty, peaceful was my shikara on her lap,
Pleasant were the season blooms.
Tolerant was the other faith, color saffron was our lives,
and a learned poet sang,
if there's heaven on earth, it is this, it is this.

Swift was the raid, numerous were the k-Guns,
single was the target,
lost my brother, lost my yard and my gods.
You don't belong here,
they said to my fear and faith caused a cultural tear.

This is your country, says my country to solace me,
the urban smoke chokes me,
this shrewd city ain't my land, i wasn't born here,
nor i am going to die here,
its in the earthy paradise, would sleep my heart to rest