Conversations bring them back, their reputations and their fame,

They are there, nothing beyond just names.

The soil on which they walked and the air they breathed,

Their footprints are long erased, absent also the air.

They were born there, played there as toddlers,

Grew up to be youths, brought home their brides.

Wove their dreams and built their homes,

Lived their lives and sired children of their own.

The farther I go from the place, the more I see them standing near that hedge,

Standing in a group, smiling like children, as if of the same age.

There is something about the place where my roots exist,

I see my ancestors calling me, though I know there exists none.

I wasn't born there, neither did I play as a toddler,

Nor did I bring my bride, nor did I raise kids of my own.

Born, I was elsewhere, grew up in another,

Always lived like a nomad, never struck root in one.

I fail to understand why that place beckons me to it,

To rest there, heal my bruised soul, and call that place my home.

Standing in the middle of life, seeing my kids fly,

Off to the promised land without knowing why.

*

Jay Jagdev | 25^th December 2023