He says we have no future here,
No fortune here, no scope of it.
He doesn’t see the thousand years
Of wisdom in these dusty books
That Father’s left behind for us.
For someone working from his room,
He doesn’t see that all one needs
Is laptop with a data card.
For someone always cooped indoors,
He doesn’t see palatial space
That this here house affords us with.
He doesn’t see the kinder air,
The sweeter water, cheaper food,
And simpler pace of daily life.
He doesn’t see that getaways
Are just as far from here as there.
He points what else he doesn’t see:
No hospitals of any worth.
No schooling for a curious mind.
No privacy from nosy tongues.
No freedom of immodesty.
And yet, for all he doesn’t see,
He sees at least one clearly:
For all romantic words I say,
It isn’t him I try to sway.