You may even take my youth.
But please return the monsoon of my childhood.
That paper made boat and the rain in which
I used to play.
The oldest relic of the neighborhood.
That old lady that children used to
call grandmother,those fairies that
dwelt in the stories of grandmother.
the experience of centuries visible
by the wrinkle on the face.
Even if one tries,one can not forget
those seemingly short nights and
long stories of grandmother,one can not forget
Sneaking out from the house in the mid-afternoon.
The melody of sparrows chirping and those
naive efforts to capture the illusive butterfly.
Having disagreements with friends while
celebrating the wedding of dolls.who can
ever forget that falling from the swing and
and stand up again.
Those endearing gifts of brass rings,
those broken glass bangles remind
me of those days,occasionally going
to the hill of sand,making sand castles
and then destroying them.
That picture of my innocent imagination,
those dreams and toys were our sole wealth.
Neither were we effected by world’s sorrows
nor bound by relationships.
That life was beautiful.