Murari Sinha Poet Free verse

The Language of Home

The Language of Home

Trying 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.

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