His love became his enemy,
He’s sorry he turned his back,
For pastures new, a materialistic stew,
Despite the deepening cracks.
But that’s what people do,
Until they realise, all too late,
The love they have for you.

I know there’s nothing he can say,
Except “forgive me and let me pray”
Colourful tones and peaceful souls,
He lacked wisdom beyond control.
Brahmin living dormant,
While hopeless wealth,
Undermined his spiritual health.

There’s nothing he can do,
Except raise his head and feel the new,
Anticipating the call of his nation,
Sweat dripping for fear of stomach churning rejection.
Open arms over downward brows,
Take him in, he’s just been let down.

And for the sake of fitting in,
He lost the eternal voice within,
And now he’s peaking summits,
Without the required spiritual courage,
To even begin.

He has the shame of lighter skin,
Suits with skinny ties and a western trim,
And he’s still feeling cold.
His tongue is pointing west,
His ears could understand,
But never could digest,
He’s getting old.

And the harder he turns away,
The sweeter the Aarti plays,
So he’s close.
And the harder he ignores his heart,
The further the truth departs,
So morose.

But now he sees you clearly,
So how long until he feels you?
There’s no need to feel ashamed,
His error was the same,
He took to his vacation,
As if it were his salvation.

They’re saying there’s nothing he can do,
He’s left it late and missed his cue.
But his essence sheds tears,
He seeks forgiveness for neglected years.

He owes his nature,
To the wisdom found in scriptures,
He’s the leaf with no tree,
The fish without water and the life with no purpose.
He can’t connect, his true self glides above his head,
All with the aim to bring his feet back home to his desh

He’s the realisation that there’s a world above,
Where confused souls find pride and self love,
Where like minded turns to love reminded,
And all our brothers pierce their divine lids.

His pride became a memory, it hurts,
The pain of the denial,
Mixed with unworthy worth whiles,
Now that he can see,
His veins flow to the mystic melody,
And reincarnate the Indian spirit in me.

He sees the colours, the yellow paste,
The ladies dancing with effortless grace.
The men are talking, hot chai is pouring,
The young children playing, cricket adoring.

Slow steps to fully integrate his holy return,
Gleams of sunlight curve the buildings.
Striking heat, a striking revelation,
32 years in the making, for supernatural stimulation.

He thought he reached his destination,
But he was only at his call to action.
The path has opened, the humility  inspires him,
And all that’s left is his emotional  realisation…

He’s Indian.

Yng Phlsphr BCN