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This is Home, I cannot stay

Maria Ansari

I sometimes think, God 

might have done a better job, 

painting the Sistine chapel; 

I see silhouettes of birds 

flying home, near the blood red 

setting sun, a view I captured 

in the photoreceptors of my eyes.

 

At times, when wheatish would become

the favourite colour of the sun, its rays 

would bounce off the girl, 

who took a beautiful spiral staircase, 

to reach the terrace of her home. 

With a book in her right hand, 

she’d measure the breadth of it. 

 

Her hips swaying from side to side, 

would make the sky blush lilac in 

her presence and would turn me, 

a bright oleander. In her place now, 

rests a bone brought by a crow. 

The sparrows have left the city, 

that moves at a lethargic pace, 

on intersecting roads. 

 

The back of my terrace 

is a sight for the desolate,

supervising evacuated houses, 

bewitching the melancholic’s gaze. 

An orange cloak has befallen this city; 

The lights in the nearby mall, 

are changing; her family has moved 

to San Francisco. 

 

Leaving only the help behind, who has 

lived among dark green hues

for fifteen years. The skyscrapers;

are still far away, markers of a

Civilisation and a source of 

discontentment for someone like me,

who lives in a four-storeyed flat. 

 

Vacations always meant going away, 

to far-off lands, and yet steadily; 

Vacations had come to mean 

Homecoming; which was once 

synonymous with Durgapujas.

Last year, was first of the many pujas 

spent away from home but, 

I carry a memory of the sacred land

in my heart, regardless. 

 

END. 


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