Lost in Translation
I am home
Or as close to something
That the word stands for;
After all, I’m just weaving tapestries of metaphors,
These intricate strands,
each carefully chosen and with great precision,
weaved
So the world might commune with me
For I am a lone, forlorn being
Cast out from my home, my planet
Forcing me to leave behind
That which makes sense;
Where the tongue I speak
They understand it,
Or so I tell myself —
To placate my weary heart that tediously seeks
A soul in solitary to accompany me.
I write for it is the language I know
Intrinsically that flows
Each word, a brushstroke for you to see
The painting I paint with blood for thee
Scraps of paper burn
As smoke fills the room, the lungs
Choking, even as I use it to signal
Burning embers are all you see
But ‘tis not your fault —
When I show you a painting of my heart
All you see is abstract art,
Like a scientist gazing at the work of a French impressionist
Pondering upon its intimacies,
Oh—
I mean intricacies
Or maybe I didn’t
I stay lost in the mix of this translation.
My essence wandering a desolate nation
Bordering the realms of understanding and familiarity
So I flee to thee, my solemn mother
Take me as part of your trees
Let rain mingle with the tears I weep
Lying in your roots
Oh, mother, turn me
Into those lemon green softlings you sprout each spring
The ones that wither away in autumn
In fiery auburn, the life of these embers
Living in this moment, the next forgotten
Yet they are luckier, they live here
Where they can see,
Behold you in your true beauty
Without needing to utter but a single plea
So solitary walking your valleys and trees
I am home
Or as close to something that home can be
Amity Batra