The House That Still Lives In Me

I walk these city streets of glass and stone,

Where shadows stretch, yet I feel alone.

The towers gleam, the avenues roar,

But my heart still knocks on a different door.

A door once set in weathered wood,

In a village where tall green memories stood.

Where sun broke through the banyan's leaves,

And laughter rustled with the breeze.

There, in that house—our humble nest,

Where love and light knew no rest—

The mornings smelled of mango trees,

And dew-kissed paths danced with ease.

I see my uncle's gentle face,

His stories warmed that sacred place.

We’d walk as dawn began to rise,

Under soft, forgiving skies.

My mother’s song, my father’s hand,

The soul of that now empty land.

They sold it off, the roof, the walls,

When money answered duty's calls.

I still recall the final day—

The rooms packed up, the skies were gray.

The laughter echoed, then withdrew,

And time did what all time must do.

Now I own a house, four stories high,

But it can't hold a lullaby.

The rain still falls, the sun still shines,

But not like in those older times.

No evening breeze through broken fence,

No scent of earth so calm, so dense.

No uncle waiting on the chair,

No voices singing in the air.

Just granite halls and silent steel,

A life too polished to truly feel.

What price was paid, what trade was done—

To lose the moon and chase the sun?

Oh!! if I could just rewind,

Undo the march of cruel time,

I’d keep that house with all its grace,

And never leave that sacred place.

For though I sleep beneath a dome,

I’ve lost the only place called home.

And though this city gives me more,

My heart still waits at that old door.