The Tiny Mustard Seed

So, where is home?

Home is where the dust cries

In a foreign land

Where we shall come to know the bitterness of exile.

And yet, where is this home?

It is inside the mustard seed

Where only the dying can see –

If we are to poeticize these inkwells

With an altruistic art,

We must become the pen

Upon this page of forceful doubts.

Only then shall we come to light this

Legendary candle

Of hope.

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