It is part of me, who dreamt a thousand times of being lost on her way home.
It is the home of my childhood, in a messy shell of illegal houses.
The lichen on the tarnished walls, the smell of mildew, the dim dull darkness fed me with songs of raindrops –
I want to keep quiet now to let you hear it.
We used to grow grapes, and make bread in shape of animals.
Neighbors were louder than radios, granny complained.
Grandpa forgot he fell asleep.
I could hear the raindrops that I can hear no more,
though the town is more quiet
than having headphones in ears.
People have asked me why aren’t you bored,
others, why aren’t you back. Back.
Strange, and equally strange. That’s all.
I was lost on my way home,
not only in my dream.
I knew every bit of the cement corners, built with cheap cloudy bricks.
I knew this cross-lane,
where I was caught, and forced to swallow the bitter med.
And next turn, the humpbacked apple tree once bloomed in white.
Next, and next, the rhythm made fun of me.
Tick, tock, tick…