My memory has a keyhole with a timeless lock
Peeping with one eye shut, I see the creaking wooden floor
Of my room with a view, I once had in Kashmir
A big unkempt terrace overlooking the backyard
That bore apples, pears, peaches, figs, and plums
A kitchen garden that boasted of a cold water well
And a chicken coop that echoed with my childhood
My heart has a telescope with a fractured glass
Sealed deftly with powdered gold, concealing the flaw
Perhaps in the hope of giving it a new lease of life
Eyepiece shows me my celebrated garden in Kashmir
Tulips, Roses, Daffodils, Gladiolus, Hollyhocks, Hyacinths and more
My parents tending to each plant as though it were a newborn
And a lush green grass carpet, embellished with morning dew
My soul has a weathered paint brush, with a broken grip
Splattering red on every picturesque journey into the past
I keep coating with layers of snow, the abrasions still show
Of the bedrock dismantled, of the honour vandalised
The trees are dead, the well dry, the flowers infertile
The moist soil smells the same, the fragrance anew
And the birds still chirping, on our estranged mulberry tree
Home is now an obscure fairy tale, verbalized by aliens
Home is now a termite eaten picture, in a wooden frame
Home is now a misty recollection, strolling through yonder
Replayed ever so often, in the fountainhead of mind
Home that once was and is no more.
© Jheelaf Parimu
14 Sept 2020
