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The Migrant

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Knock knock! Is someone on the other side of air?
For the air is viscous and the image ain’t clear.
The sea is far away and nowhere to be seen,
Buildings are all same as the city of my teen.
Oh and I am not old but twenty or so—
But after days at work I have been feeling so.
Not distant passes a train honking the horn,
Very much the same in the city I was born—
Wherefrom I set for this journey with teary eyes
Parting hands with dearly crafted friendly ties.

Knock knock! I still am talking to you
Of all strangers I have met under this blue.
I have seen the roads, the rises, the deeps,
The frocks, the coats, the blazers, the sleeves,
Cats and cows and canines perching the streets,
And the wet wind blowing away my bleats—
All was well and friendly and known 
The same as the city where so long I had grown.
Oh but different men! Incomprehensible and dull—
Pale faces unravelling like storm after a lull. 

Knock knock! I hope you are still there
Listening to my whines with all your care,
Hold me still, for this mist now engulfs me
Like that which I saw outside my first flight’s glee—
That which brought me far from home
To this life very unlike I made ideal at home:
A mansion, a maid and a mate, rich food on my plate,
Fresh scent of the grass, washed by sea near my gate.
But where have you gone now that my eyes are clear?
Guess there was no one on the other side but air.

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