I am no prince, or princess
Born with any grand purpose.
No regal promise is expected from
My plebeian being.
But every day I meet
Every parental wish to survive;
And can’t remember
If I am living or I am alive!
There’s no brother or cousin
To walk with me through
No brave old world to share with me
The forests of hunger.
I have no pair of hands to apply
Soaked cold earth over my wounds,
After I chase unreal dreams.
But every time I am broken into
Blood cells, stories are flashed
Through faces I hardly know.
Yes I have sinned against beauty,
Not because she was a monster;
But because she was too beautiful,
And I was scared to surrender.
So I ravished her lands,
Killed everyone she loved;
Left her all alone at the gate…
Proud and shattered,
Pained and in fear,
Wanting to hold on
But preferring to let go…
I was lonely too!
It’s been more than ten and four years…
There’s no country waiting for me
With candle lights;
No people decorating the city walls
No colours to be thrown in the air
To welcome me;
There will be no feast ever or revelry
And no song will be sung.
I am no prince, or princess…
I hardly know who I am.
I can’t remember if I have any place
I can call home.
I am always living in exile….
Focusing on Literature and Lifestyle of the Urban Youth of the Country, LitGleam is a monthly magazine, an intrinsic part of BlueRose Publishers.
Within its pages, our readers find provocative essays on literature and lifestyle, guidance for getting published and pursuing writing careers, in-depth profiles of poets, fiction writers, and writers of creative nonfiction, and conversations among fellow professionals.