With dollars in my dreams and pounds in my pockets, I sit by the window pane of an expensive flat in Rome, all alone.
With pizza replacing the chappatis and pop music replacing holy chants, I walk by the already full streets of Maryland, all alone.
With fingers replacing the pencil and emails replacing the conversations, I rush by the pace of metro in Singapore, all alone.
Just then, a photograph sneaks out of my wallet, questioning me:
How can you forget the dreams that were buried?
How can you chase your ambitions so blindly?
How far will you go?
I have taken connecting flights, after flights and flown all over the world. All I know now is that there is no place more beautiful than your own home, in a word.
I long for those smiles that the photograph bore, and I long for my home, waiting outside the door.
There’s nobody here to welcome me now, only a broken latch and sighs thou.
I have learnt it’s too late and yes too far, I was driving in wrong direction, in my new car.
I have to sit, walk and rush all alone, I will not be pestered by worries over the phone.
I have a new life that makes me miss the old, I must admit the diaspora of home was gold.