How is it that we are different from birds
flocking to foreign lands with changing weather.
Aren’t we like migrating animals,
searching endlessly for food and shelter.
The inhabitants of that land eye us with distrust
like beasts insecure of their territory
And we, trying to figure out what we are;
parts of them
or fragments of what we were.
Are we, birds of resplendent plumage
that we thought ourselves to be
Or morbid strokes in black and white
as they perceive our visage to be
How long shall we stay stuck
in this infinite clash of identities
Is it natural for our existence to be forever caught in a mould of conformity?                                              Why should it be difficult to accept    that parts of you are parts of me          Why should either of us survive      when both can live with ecstasy.