A piece of heart called home

The poet writes
Of the familiar leaf
On a crooked branch
On an ancient tree,
Or of the birds flying home lazily
Like tiny arrows-
To bring to life, once again,
The home that lodges
In the DNA of our memories.
The epics describe
The leftover orange
In the sky at dusk,
And the fluffy clouds cruising past
A somber moon-
Just to keep alive
The sights and the sounds,
The stories and the tenderness,
Of a childhood
Half forgotten.
All the tales
Of the travelers,
All literature,
All our songs,
All our history
And our myths,
Just to recreate
That little piece of heart
That we had called home.

About Abhishek

I will let the blog speak for itself...or, at times, for me. View all posts by Abhishek

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