Diaspora
Alien, stranger in this world, Other
We left our home but our home has not left us.
Home
Place of our dreams, place of our Selves, place of our blood.
That place which brands us, marks us, delineates us.
A pastiche of memories and meanings,
Constantly changing while remaining unchanged.
Home
That place we belong to which we no longer belong.
Our roots, our bondage, our past, our future.
It haunts our dreams and taints our tongues.
It shapes our souls and our social introductions.
“Where are
you from?”
The Dark Continent, The Motherland
The place you do not know and
have not known.
Hidden in mists and
misconceptions,
Ignored in ignorance, exoticized in effigy.
Where are we
from?
Do you really want to know?
Should we really tell you?
How can you begin to understand?
How can we begin to understand?
Where is
Home?
We knew once. Then we left.
Chasing dreams or chased from
dreams.
Seeking greener pastures, expelled
from natal pastures.
Pushed or pulled, drawn or
compelled.
Where is Home?
Both here and there.
Neither here nor there.
In the home of our birth, we have become Other.
In our adopted home, we remain
Other.
Where do we
belong?
Everywhere. Nowhere.
Anywhere.
In a land not our home, in a
land not our own.
A land of aliens, strangers, and
others
In a land where we have become
the alien, the stranger, the Other.
We are Diaspora
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