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To those people whose fingers somehow subconsciously and spontaneously synchronise with music wherever and whenever.
To those poets who write obsessively, lawlessly, unfettered by the jeweled shackles of rhyme and metre,
To those who dance to the patter of rain, the silence of snowfall, the wind and wave whispers, but never to music
To those coffee-frenzied almost adults skipping philosophy lectures to rebuild the school of Athens with smoke on the rooftops.
To those insane writers who never write simply tell the stars stories all night, stories that never see the light of day or typewriter.
To those liberal politicians who have freed themselves from every politics but not from the library, never the library
I have stood on cliff sides addressing that
The lachrymose ache of hiraeth, perhaps, has always been my fatal flaw.
But,what would have been of me
If I hadn’t searched for a home for so long,
Never would have liked to know.
Never would have liked to know.
I am sure neither does those, those, and those
So let it echo through the mountains and through time,
Let it reach the bubble the rest of the world lives in.
Beauty of yearning for a home is that your soul isn’t bound
To any morbid concrete walls or to the laws of any one pursuit.
You may find a home in whatever form you desire,
for eternity or for a short time,
but never for anyone other than your hiraeth and you.
About The Author
Saloni Choudhary is a young aspiring poet and artist. She has been previously published in two anthologies. Fun facts about her are that she's an old soul and is inspired by literature and small things in life. Contact: salonichoudhary501@gmail.com
Cover page by Francine Gado
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