The Day I Lost My Own Land
A first glimpse appears through my childhood magnifying glass,
As seating over a hard stone, near to our own land.
I remember my parents weeping and consoling each other,
As the bulldozer had pieced our own land, own home.
Those cruel people, on the bulldozer, had nothing their own.
They were neither our well-wishers nor our enemies.
They came to finish their duty, and the same day,
We lost our own land and identity.
I remember, I stood up over the stone and
Started pelting stones on them, though I knew it’s useless.
I remember of picking up all broken pieces of my magnifying glass,
On the same day, we lost our own land.
My parents were born-farmers.
My grand-parents were born-farmers.
And I, son of a poor farmer.
And the same day, I remember watching my parents’ helpless pale faces,
Crippled of being lost all the farmers can have in a lifetime.
Those cruel people had drawn a border line,
Between me and my land, my home.
Those political people defined a border line,
Between me and my weak, apolitical parents.
I remember people telling the final truth of our destiny;
We lost our own land, our own home and own self,
The same day, we lost our land.