a long wait,
for the roof, I call home,
for the mellow rain overhead,
on all levels except physical,
I stroll through a park on the hills,
wild roses of which offer a glimpse of grandmother's love for her man,
when he went the whole nine yards towards the summit.
her tunes give elocution to a mute hometown child,
her drawings cushion a vulnerable pair of eyes with hues.
mornings refuse to wake till she sings,
midnights echo tales of lost history.
every city, every avenue I run,
both outside and inside,
with agonizing patience,
i will always find my way back home.
- isha
