The Language of Home
The Language of HomeTrying to memorize
the language of home,
I have become
a little blurred,
a little brown.
Loving home,
loving it too much,
I have become
a little impure,
a little torn.
I crawl,
indifferent,
trying to swallow
my own breath,
having learned
to ask for permission
even to breathe.
I now call
the Supreme Soul
Coca-Cola.
At the touch
of Coca-Cola's branch,
the sun-scorched crow
has flown away,
towards
the land of the displaced.
Shoe-polish,
Shree-polish,
heart-polish,
all smeared together,
I have chosen
not to become
the youngest,
the devoted,
or the devout,
but instead,
from the earthen pots and pans
of the Rig Veda and the sick-leaves,
from the intimacy
of the examination hall,
I have chosen
to uproot
myself.
Poetry by sinha murari
Written on 2026-09-02 at 06:42
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