Damned be the one, who is forced to stay,

A million miles from home away.

To be as a plant uprooted,

From the dear soil in which it sprouted.

To find his once calm and clear mind,

Now muddied, disturbed and undefined.

As Crusoe must have felt on his days alone,

Bereft of company, chilled to the bone.

Plagued by a most indescribable feeling,

An incurable itch, peace of mind stealing .

Into his brain a red sword driving,

It's tormented thoughts its own colour staining.

His reason seems stuck in a traffic jam,

And logic like the water held back in a dam.

Tossing and turning in an unfamiliar bed,

Almost moved to wish that he was dead!

His soul resonating with the passing train's wail;

It goes to his home, but he cannot thither sail.

The melody of his mind disrupted,

By missing notes and instruments made distorted.

What was once exhilarating symphony,

Turned into rather comical cacophony.

Akin to a filthy red rag, to say sooth,

After the deadly caress of the canine's tooth.

When colourless and barren life makes him lose belief,

And sunrise brings despair, sunset relief,

When he feels as a youngling lamb,

Bewildered at the separation from its eve and ram,

Tell him, all ye readers, to retain his resolve,

For old Father Time does all problems dissolve.

As he, like the plant unto newer soil transplanted,

Will take root, and flourish in lands desolate, detested.

And when he returns to his home beloved,

Having grown into a man respected.

To his pleasant astonishment to find,

That he left but in body, never in mind!