Photography by: @mussalini_

I have heard the word “home” spoken around me

more often than any other word in my lifetime;

heard it spoken thick with longing,

my mother’s tongue, slick with the accent of her ancestors,

her dialect still potent, fragrant; lingering.

We are the sons and daughters of lands

That will always be called “home,”

The children whose skin lays testament to a place

We may never have known,

Who in broken attempts at our mother tongues;

Still claim the lands that expelled us.

We are the inbetweeners –

Lost in a space between being and belonging;

The lingering roots of a tree pulled from its soil,

We are sired to ‘homes’ we have never been to,

Pained by memories we can never lay claim to;

More loyal to the ‘homes’ we have left

than the lands we have moved to;

We are here, but we are not.

We are here, but we are not.

Poetry : Farah Gabdon  | Website