Home

Stop wailing over my homelessness.

For me, home was never a building.

Late night bedtime tales by dad, 

and sleeping in his arm was home.

Finding in the canyons of the inner eye-

the smiling image of mom was home.

Home was respect of your sister-

and the hidden care of your brother. 

Home, was mom's happy native town- 

and songs of the brook rushing by.

Home, was rainbows in a dewdrop-

and the coppery dusk over the river.

Drenching in the drizzles was home, 

so was bathing in silver moonlight. 

Counting stellar specks felt like home.

So did the nocturnal chorus of crickets. 

Dreams became a home in solitude, 

just like memories amidst sorrows.

Shadow of this tree's canopy was a home.

So was fragrance of an orange jessamine. 

The sight of a butterfly on the hydrangea-

and a breeze tickling my locks was home.

Home was hands that scribble a poem-

and the unknown person's selfless help. 

Hearts that defy the divides were home.

So were eyes that glistened with hopes.

Demigod, your kisses sweet are home- 

and within your hug is my favourite home.

Well, never lock me in concrete caves.

For these roofs can never shelter me.

Nor these walls will ever contain me.

I'm home always in small things of life. 

So stop wailing over my homelessness.