By Vipanjeet Kaur
The wound of exile refuses to get healed. The ghost of one’s nostalgic past; the fairy of glorious future, designed a division that refuses to get sealed. I think of wanderers sometimes, who went far and wide in search of a mirage called “home” -- a piece of land that one calls one’s own. Irony is that no true “home” exists anywhere in the bounds of mind. It is built, demolished and abandoned to the storms of vagabond passion. Isolation, inner or outer, will coexist, No matter how far you go. She knows no border; no human is foreign to her, the enchantress of alienation will bewitch you, haunt you and embrace your heart. I think of those who wander in exile, Perhaps they had to run for sanity, Perhaps they had to choose between death and life, and they chose life in exile. Their owned world turned hostile, That insane world didn’t spare their smiles; didn’t house their self-esteem; chased their aspirations and dreams. Being exiled from a place was better For them than exile in life.
Vipanjeet Kaur resides in India. Her poems have been published in Tangled Locks Journal, Hidden in Childhood anthology, White Enso, Cajun Mutt Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Fevers of the Mind Poetry and Art Group.
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