There will always be a home,
With grey walls and greyer eaves.
Rangoon creepers would wind around The iron gate,
Gently blowing a healing kiss
on the hinges that ache,
When the Paperwallah arrives.
A dysfunctional scooter that you refuse to sell
Would lie in the garage,
Its leather seats turning brown with dust.
The rooms would fill with your warm essence,
As you recline on your armchair,
Gulping down the affairs of the world,
With a cup of tea,
Strong as usual.

It has been aeons since the doors of
the house
Closed on me.
The fuchsia plant that I brought along
Is laden with purple blossoms now,
Reminding me of the home
That was never mine.

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