The crisis

identity crisis

There are many solutions to a problem
Said her father with a tone of finality
May be not, to this riddle of ethnicity
Playing in her head, like a forgotten anthem.

Still she dreams of the stars, shining alike
On the outstretched hands of the sky...

The roaring waves smothered the golden shore
With sprays of saline foam and shells of conch
One foot in the water, another on the shore
Akin to the riddle, her conviction was staunch.

Still she dreams of the stars, shining alike
On the outstreched hands of the sky..

A product of two cultures and a bifid tongue
She searched for her self here and beyond
Of the city, she had praises to be sung
The place of birth, was not too fond.

Still she dreams of the stars, shining alike 
On the outstretched hands of the sky..

Tradition and modernity forked into two roads
Remembering Frost, she took the one less travelled by 
That was the middle course, with gasps and a long sigh
Having to stop many a time, giving explanations in loads.

Still she dreams of the stars, shining alike
On the outstretched hands of the sky...