Old Home

A little piece of land,
supporting bricks and gravel,
painted and decorated,
we call home.

Years squeezed in a whistle,
passed in a quick melody,
as I revisited the voices
that echoed in my old home.
Laughs, screams, hushes,
all fill the air with familiarity,
of people, of their love, of a warm feeling of safety.
I walk through the hall,
I stall everywhere, in and out,
re-living the life lost to these walls,
preserved in these closets,
scratch and see the colours of the paint,
a childhood is layered,
birth to death.

I live in city now,
far from the rough roads,
that made my feet ready
to take a higher feat.
Higher, yes, happier? no.
And after altering the lifestyle,
the child never wants to go back,
to his beginning,
as he never grew living there,
because, he was burried there.
The grown up searches him everywhere,
in the bedroom, in the lobby, in the kitchen,
then moves back from his old home.