An ocean away
I've been to India many times.
Never felt at ease there,
whether in a village or Mumbai,
shopping a bazaar, having a Kingfisher
or a cup of chai, walking the crowded streets.
It's the oppressive, ubiquitous unfamiliarity -
ever a stranger in a foreign milieu,
an ocean away from home.
These days, holed up in my hometown,
homestead, habitat, my own planet
and (gross) plane, I'm also ever slightly
ill-at-ease, every familiar thing
now drenched in a foreign light,
heard in a disquieting way,
smelt and tasted seasoned with dust and ash.
Ill-at-ease in my own skin, my head and heart.
I've listened to You and told myself
so many times I've come to believe it
beyond any intentional, intellectual concept,
down to my very bones -
this world is not my home.
This world is not my home.
O child of God, don't rest until you
get back to where you started.