Many have sung of the homeland
And the hinterland,
Of seas crossed and homes purchased
From unopposing home-makers abroad
In the manner of a Columbus or Cook…
In short, homes conquered,
Sanctified homes withstood plunder.
Could adding a home to one’s own
Make one’s soulful home?
Could the comforts of the hearth
Be bartered for any settlement
Seized during imperial sojourns
And its innumerable halts?
One brags of seizing the homes
Of uncouth barbarians in a remote land.
Does one need to be vainglorious
Talking of one’s real home?
Is it had by valour or bravado?
It is not annexed by might or main,
Whose seal is the ground below
And roof atop loyal to the last.
Here cushions and pillows are not exhibits
Of deerskin or hides of exotic species
That surrendered once to pillaging weapons.
These things pamper one like the luxuriant lap
Of a fond mother whose live kitchen
Smells of rich dainties to have and to share.
Here one gives oneself, one’s true self,
To friends and kin and all one’s kind
In this domain all one’s own,
One’s only real blessing
And inalienable pride.
A home is not an asset in real estate;
It is the haven of the homing bird,
A place to return after all peregrination
Life reserves for the wanderlust.
And even when none greets one at the doorstep
The composite soul of the home
Where all bonds join their spirits
Would sate one’s deepest longing
For home, sweet home.