I don’t go out, nor meet any one.
I don’t have anyone I’d like to meet.
There is no place I’d like to go to.
My days are the same for five days a week.
My nights are same for five nights a week.
No friends, no relatives, no colleagues come to meet
me, nor do I ever go out. All is hell that’s not heaven.
My home is my heaven. No, this is not my home.
This is the house in which I live.
My home is away, a thousand kilometer away
from this city where I live and make ends meet,
nothing less, and nothing more.
I have heard all the lectures, of how I should now
call this place that gives me shelter home,
this city my city, and this life heavenly.
I’d love to. I’m for it, rationally, but heart,
the emotional part of my mind,
has fifty-one percent share
and controls my life and thoughts