Migrant

I was told that it was going to take a while
in constructing the boat and sending it back to the sea

But I was not not told, that it was going to
take a longer while in reconstructing the residuals

I was told about the storms and the tides,
the moon and the time

But I was not told, of the new land and languages,
the trees and the soils

My land across the sea is like the song of the
nightingale, echoing each night before sleep

My land under this feet, is the very elixir of
my breath and its vitality, my sleep and its dreams

The boat is the postcard of my existence,
unprepared to be moored to the shore,
divided between the invincible intimacy
of the two lands

And yet, they ask me to choose one,
or, forget the other

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