There was a story from far Bengal thus titled;
This poet loved his home
And it also meant his homeland.
I long to return home
When I have had enough of the world
Or the world has had enough of me.
The world defines what I get
And I define what I give.
Such is the transaction
In this vast planet of business.
At the end of the day
I return to huddle in my nest
Or sprawl to my full length.
Here I am myself,
Sans witness, sans judge.
Here I feel brave to take on the world;
Where I do not see my image
In the eyes of a zillion faces.
Here I laugh aloud at the fool’s myth
Who claims the world is his home
To carry out his selfish will,
Till the angry gods make the sky
Arching high over him fall, filling
His world with its pieces,
Making him retreat to his nest
To ruminate over his folly.
Home is both comfort and clinic,
Things so readily forgotten while
Claiming a larger unearned home.
One is master but in the nest
One has feathered on one’s own.
The long wand of power is a prismatic thing
Dispersing greater fears coming one’s way,
Bringing counter-strokes that can bring down
High-rise nests over trees on citadels.
One who loves the home, and also
The wide world without bane,
Is most human of animals and
The real inheritor of the world.
As he walks out of his threshold
He steps into the Eden he has nurtured
Where no serpent dares sting the wise
And no Eve heeds his low treatise.