A Home

In a lane of large houses

Sits my humble home

With its faded red picket fence

And rickety swing

Hung from the Bunyan branch

As old as my grandfather

Who sits on the veranda

In his creaking chair

Reading about lecherous

Boatmen of Verona.

In a lane of silent houses

Sits my noisy home

With a bunch of small children

Running wild in the garden

Picking wild berries

And pretending to be emperors

Hiding in the forest of Arden

Being hunted by dragons

And a harassed mother

With a plate of chocolate cookies.

In a lane of clean houses

Sits my dusty home

With wild climbers embracing the fence

And scarlet leaves of Palash

Scattered and piled in the backyard

Like wild flames of fire

Devouring the old trees

And giving birth to new saplings

That stretch towards the wind

Like young ones playing in the sun.

In a lane of colossal houses

Sits my small home

Devoid of expensive sprinklers

And freshly manicured gardens

Without the polished laughter

Which adorn Sunday brunches

But with a pool of memories

And a warm scent of earth

Drenching my spirit

With damp smell of love.



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