Diaspora

I the diaspora, the vagabond, the wayfarer.

I the traveller, a nomad, a wanderer. 

I who blend in and yet never belong.

I who talk like a native but remain a foreigner.

I who have called many places my home.

 

I who have brothers and sisters though born an only child.

I who have traversed crossroads upon crossroads

 And navigated the dichotomies both external and internal

I who have crossed thresholds, broken bread, sat by hearths,  sang songs, danced dances, and heard stories.

I remain restless, for my story has no root.

I remain a drifter, dispersed into the world, riding the wind.

So I cherish any moment that is real, raw, and concrete; 

knowing just how ephemeral, ethereal, and fragile it all can be.

So walk with me, come sit by me, and just for a moment be my anchor so that I may know what it is like to feel grounded.