First published in The Asian Age, August 01, 2004
The Call of Home
Like a homing pigeon
I return home.
Again and again,
dark,
cold.
No one to welcome me at the door,
a few grains of sand to peck,
a dish of dirty water.
No one to hold or stroke
my weary feathers.
The Hand of Fate
flew me to the land of warmth,
where the grain grew in fields,
the river ran clear and free,
love encircled me,
and the sun always shone.
I like it,
but I had to leave.
I had to return home.
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