I've been uprooted thrice. First found
no comfort in being myself. By
being swept off the ground.
The people hanged stigma over
With voices harsh and loud
Second, the state failed to make me proud
It suggested how different was I
To join 'em on the carpet, so it put me lower -
Under, Where it hid the mound
of corpses of rainbow color,
the past, by the present, and fear to hope
and now is the future, and this is a third
Time Uprooted I am, can i cope?
Can I cure this fever of
Since I know
Where no root of mine can grow?