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The Suitcase

The Suitcase

At airport terminal luggage zone
A conveyor belt goes round and
Comes around;
A suitcase with no owner,
Tagged and leisurely making the rounds,
Revolving as it wandered.

It could be a depository of knowledge
Or of items of little worth.
A suitcase under lock & key;
Zippers under gag order;

What is it about shut and dark spaces?
This suitcase turns, turns some more,
Returns, glides by again;
Twirls like a young lady standing on her head;
A suitcase none would pick up;
A suitcase unable to get off the belt;
A suitcase unable to get off abroad
Or duly return to its homeland;
It keeps moving back and forth like a thought;
It moves sideways,
Like rainwater rolling on the green;

Exile is just that—
A nation losing its conscience;
Conscience forcing one to flee;
To flee to interior self;
To flee on other’s behalf;
Subjected to alien heartaches;
A flower deprived of a butterfly;
A butterfly, and no flower;
Aimlessly wandering;
Loosed from its moorings;
Digging one’s own grave;
A mortal weeping for Self;
Shifting endless moods;
Wearing endless faces;
The lot of one with itchy feet,
Whether empty or fully loaded,
Unable to get off the conveyor belt
And no one to pick it up;
A suitcase.
A suitcase and no owner.

"ባለቤት የሌለው ሻንጣ"፣ ነቢይ መኮንን | ©Blue Nile Poems (p.93-94), 2018 by Mitiku Adisu