Home

The branches sway like a slow song

Leaves rustling with the breeze.

Cuckoos caw with power

And lyre birds chirp in melody.

Can peace be called home?

Vroom, Roar, Thud.

Manned yellow motors replace the green.

The slow song fastens.

Swaying branches descend.

Can peace be called home?

For money they say.

For their homes.

Nature is silenced with grief.

What about the mother’s home?

Not a sound can be heard,

A hoot, a chirp, or a scuttle.

This home was a peaceful choir.

Forced to immigrate to another.