Myself

Photo by Subham Dash from Pexels

This language I speak is not my own
I keep on searching
keep on roaming
This identity I have is not my own
and I keep on asking
„What is a home?“

I was born in a country
I was told to hate
my grandparents‘ past
became this generations‘ fate

I kept on searching for divinity
for something like a home
in every corner of the world
I only felt alone.

This language I use is not my own
I borrowed it, I pay the loan
This country I live in is not my own
and I keep on asking
„What is a home?“

I will be searching
roaming every book on this shelf
to eventually understand
a God
a home
lives only
in oneself.