My old home

one evening when sun painted
the sky with goodbye of orange
i passed through a familiar lane
leading to a “no more my address”
to an old home where my childhood stays

it was there my old home, old and wrinkled
for years which never trembled
perched near a dhaak tree shade
the colors that have begun to fade

our home was small and sturdy through seasons
we were happy may be that was the reason
inside we had a guava tree whose branches came
inside the rooms where the love  still flowed.

a swing hung to a porch for the children to share,
we giggled, we laughed and didn’t have anything to care,
inside that home a rickety chair and mattress lay bare,
an old dining table where meals were shared

and through all the dark nights we hid with quilts piled high,
we slept like kings through stories of kings, not knowing why.
so, today as I left that by lane and bid my old house a goodbye
inside my heart, I know I could never love my new house exactly so

and no matter on which pathways life now leads me on,
still at the sleepy town is an old home is where I belong

1 Comment

  1. A lot of nostalgia is attached to places like these. Sometimes just a picture of the place can evoke strange emotions.

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