The Madpackers

There is a man at the door drawing a hand,

Wrapped in colour from Texas to New Delhi.

In the midst of brush strokes and swirling red wine

Are voices of laughter, ringing over bruised passports.

Home, oft debated and seldom found

Is not a thing of permanence.

It's in the first breath you draw as you step off the airplane.

It's in the quiet conversation of chins on knees spent gazing at moving cars from a bus stop.

It's in the unfamiliar nod in a new city.

It's in that sliver of tastes of childhood in exotic cuisine.

Home, you see, isn't an entity.

It is in your hands, brushing away eternity and me.

And when the drawing is complete,

Take a step back. No, take two steps back.

Admire. Admire the handiwork that is you.

And as you pack your bags to  leave,

Know that a piece of you lives on...

Perhaps, one day, you will return.

With crow feet and wrinkles spreading out like the waves of the sea.

And once again, dip the brush into paint.

Relive all that was you and all that will be.

Afterall, rebirth isn't just a Buddha tattoo on your side.

Afterall, rebirth and home walked hand in hand with your years.

Though, wait. You weren't watching, were you?