Until the End of Time

I am...an immigrant; whether by choice, or by fate.
But I know what's love and what is hate.
For centuries I have been roaming the earth.
I'm a nomad, a drifter, a mohajir by birth.
I'm always moving from country to country.
What became of my language, culture, identity?
My name spells trouble for rulers.
No country would have me,
I'm a symbol of terror.
For I come with my baggage of
strange manners, full of errors:
How I speak and how I pray,
my quest for justice and unsettling way.
I have been an exile, since forever.
Always choosing the pain over pleasure.
But never gave in to power and lies,
Instead kept moving or paid the price.
From Arabia to Persia, and
Persia to India, then to Pakistan,
where I once belonged. But, not for long.
For I did not fit, where I was born.
When times got tough, and people...rough.
About my tongue, my prayer and beliefs;
my quest for justice, equality and peace.
I travelled more than seven seas,
so I could get a little peace.
And moved to a world so...far from home,
where, like always, I did not belong.
I cannot go back to my ancestral land.
It's been so long, they won't understand.
To them I'm now a stranger, a foriegner,
in my appearance and my manner.
I sure can stay where I am now, but
the difference of culture! I don't know how?
Life some say is a balancing act.
For me it appears nothing is correct.
I cannot have it going both ways.
Balancing life? Whoever says.
I may not belong in any place.
But I shall not abandon my ancient ways.
And I shall keep going whatever it takes.
For I must go on the way I began,
until the end of time,
or until I am home again.
But...where is home?