Tourist
©June 29th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
I am a tourist in this land
And the land in which I was born.
I wander, and wonder where I belong.
I am a tourist in this life
And the place whence I came.
I seek my home elsewhere.
A silver river flows calmly where I’m from
And the banks overflow with flowers
Rich green trees bend languidly,
Trailing their branches in the water,
Like children sailing boats.
The sky is blue and gold
In the place where I belong,
And the rain, when it comes,
Is gentle and soft.
The moon floats by, yellow-gold,
Smiling in double-time.
When you look into my eyes,
You will see another galaxy
Another Universe, another home.
When you look into my eyes,
You will see all the questions
Raising themselves like little flags
Waving to a cavalcade,
Except that my flags will blow backwards
And pull me up into the air,
And I will be spirited away,
While the dull cavalcade
Of the Real passes slowly beneath.
For this Universe has become
Too narrow for me, too tenuous.
I long to slip through it sidewise.
Like a stream of particles.
Do you say that Home
Is where one is? Perhaps.
Yes, Home is in me.
But I wish to be disembodied,
And have my body be made
Into another Universe,
Where I will be Home.
Then, I can shed this shell,
And rest on my back,
Welcoming the press of
A new life upon me.
And I shall be a Tourist
No longer, but a string of worlds
Whirling through the dark.
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