First, here is something you should read before reading the following poem. It is not written by me. My sister wrote that poem as an English assignment (she is in the final year of high school). Like me, she has traveled around the world, lived in many places and has grown to be a beautiful, wonderful girl. I have regular spats with her but I love her. This is the poem, “I am from…” she wrote.
I am from the quarrel of street food shops serving spicy food,
a zing on my tongue and the delight in my watery eyes,
I relish the Mumbai urban banter “Please make it spicier” and “Ouch! My tongue is burning”,
the casual crowd enjoys a joyous evening.
I am from the drip drop of the Thames against its green banks,
chasing my brother while the wind plays with us,
the sight of the blooming flowers is forever carved in my mind.
I am from the land of hymns and prayers,
“Thank you lord, for the food we eat”,
Rome’s best pizza and cheesy pasta- it’s more than what we need,
and we share our sorrows, hopes, and joys among those who worship thee.
I am from the Grand Place eating mouth-watering Belgian waffles,
“Il fait trop froid” I say,
walking down the dimly-lit streets,
and listening to the birds tweet.
I am from Sunny California,
300 days of shiny rays,
strumming the strings on my guitar, I soak in its echoes around the house,
let’s turn up the heat, and roast some meat,
while friends gather around for a cheerful treat.
And if you really knew me, you would know I am not from a country, nor a continent, but I am from the entire world.