There they are again
Those citizens of nowhere,
Blazing through the skies
(Sigh, roll your eyes)
On their various epic journeys,
Bothering the somewheres
With their flighty existence.
They were born to move.
You can find this one in both books:
A summer resident in the North,
Then a summer resident in the South,
(Wandering devotee of Surya,
Not believing in belongings)
Crossing between hemispheres,
Belonging to neither.
They were born to move.
No, this one’s not an immigrant:
No sooner does it arrive
Than it starts to take its leave again,
Its coming marked with hesitant desire
Because its going is always imminent.
(It feels unfair that it lands everywhere well -
Fits in equally well, feeds equally well).
They were born to move.
They’re not sorry
That you can’t fit them into a box,
Not sorry about all the borders they’ve crossed,
Not sorry for not laying down roots:
What use are roots
When you have wings?
We were born to move.
Place is an identity for some,
But for me: place is just a passing thing
A way to get to where I next want to be.
And all the life worth living
Happens along that journey
And in the in-between.
Fall: the cool breeze whispers
And it’s time to move again.
Fly far, gentle birds, and fly safe
And fly our flag - our nowhere flag -
Unfurl it in the motion of your wake.
