By Eukti Sachi
The land
on which I stand,
perfect polygons, elixir for Euclid,
poison for people, lamenting for liquid.
It is jagged
like the surface of a kid's hands.
Sunken with lines
running from anywhere to nowhere,
but surely, they come back here.
Land loves golden-
eyes squint seeing something green,
its charisma befalls on bodies
to whom I am no native.
They describe a land just like mine-
not so weak, not so meek,
even then every word they speak
starts a babel, ends in a shriek.
I came from north,
so they tell me to go east.
No prayer to spare, said to me,
Tell us when the nimbus comes,
we will again bask in the glory
of our land,
upon which you dare to stand.