Where I Am From

I am from the old dusty street where every corner whispers deep secrets,

From the street where my grandfather’s smoking pipe burned slowly,

I am from the rainwater stored in the rusted old tanks on the roof that smells like forgotten monsoon,

from my mother’s paper boats that never reached a big ocean.

I am from the afternoons of summer holidays that were lazy and golden like sun,

that tasted of freedom,

From crazy laughter with cousin and the hum of ceiling fan,

I am from the godown that hugs me when I need to hide,

from the gatherings there, smelling of rust, sweet and half remembered stories.

I am from the words, that wander in the darkness,

finding a home between lines and pauses,

From the still hours, when the world sleeps,

but my heart writes its truest stories.

Sunrise to Sunset

Sunrise to sunset he works all day,

Stand still behind children, clearing the way,

A father’s strong hand never rest,

Always providing what’s the best,

And keep all worries at bay.