EXPATRIATE

Given away from the homeland, a poor expatriate

Tears rolling down the cheeks, over his plight.

A big vacuum created, deprived of his roots;

The infinity threatens him, with its passivity.

Not that the power of prestige, he loved

Neither the limelight, nor fame, nor solemnity

He loved only a harmonious meeting,

Of love and peace as in his mother’s womb!

Beyond his will, he was snatched

By a cunning fate, wicked and insane.

Every grain of sand, he loved and each bud

Wanted to be with it, all his life.

So sad; nobody lent ears to his cries,

And was driven away from his dear land.

The body went; but the mind remained

For he was stone dead in the foreign land.

Hopefully, he turned to each drop of sand

To call him, again, to his dear land.

Not was he loved, as he did

And so had to go from his dear land.

But groaning, were the droplets of his sweat,

And cursing the traitors of the poor expatriate.