When I was born
my mother said
you are a refugee.
Our tent on the roadside
smoked in the snow.

On your forehead
between your eyebrows
there is an R embossed
my teacher said.

I scratched and scrubbed,
on my forehead I found
a brash of red pain.

I have three tongues
the one that sings
is my mother tongue.

The R on my forehead
between my English and Hindi
the Tibetan tongue reads:



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There is one comment for “Refugee”

  1. Born refugee then to die refugee would be a disgrace.
    So I take this fight personally,
    this war to my heart and battle passionately.
    I want to be in my own country within my own boundary.
    When I get home,
    I’ll smear my forehead with the soil drenched
    in the blood of my brave countrymen.
    Mixture of flesh and bone of their sacrifice.
    Then, like Indians I would dance around the fire
    to awake the silent soul to evoke the courage
    And I shall speak to the mountains who’ve seen it all.

    O! holy spirit I shall take this campaign to the next level
    Coz, we got distances to travel.
    Once again rivers would be turning red.
    Bodies would be dropped; lifeless. But, they won’t be ours.
    We shall drive the enemy out that’s for sure without a doubt.
    And this time we shall emerge victorious.
    So, my compatriots pack your bag
    We would be going home soon.

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