my childhood home


A home in India of yore
was not filled with things
nor was it a personal space;
It was in fact a stage for life’s
tiny pockets of precious moments to happen replete with resounding
noises of playing children,
cooking aromas and
gossipy visiting

Mind writes couplets in air
Etching words in shifting sands
Expressing love and admiration
That’d remained unsaid when
It would’ve mattered the most
Running hands in ocean’s curls , heart prays that this love letter
Would finally reach home


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