A broken memory
an empty cassette side,
Played the songs
of wistful childhood
I've long forgotten.

The little cracked wall,
The edge of verandah,
Reminded the monuments,
Of longing years, trapped
between me and my village.

Nostalgia filled breath,
Village well's girth;
The smell of the earth,
The inner-flowing mirth;
Everything remained the same,
Except the parents who gave birth.

Finally, I returned home,
Which I no longer can call home.

***

This poem is in the perspective of a person who has returned to his native village after refusing to leave the city for so many years. When he returned, everything remained the same, his father's taperecorder, the cracked house, the little verandah - everything, except his parents.