One late and silent evening
quite a few winters ago,
Nosain took me in lovingly,
as she did all her children before me.
As I grew a little taller and bolder
reading and playing by her windows,
her corners told me stories
of every smile and tear they’ve seen.
Her garden holds memories
and songs of her little darlings,
and roses, lilacs and bougainvilleas
that reminisce my aju who moulded her.
Throughout she has stood gentle
and witnessed celebrations,
a child’s first words,
and someone’s last cries.
I’ve always felt bright yellow under her roof
despite the sundry passing blues.
Her walls are tinged with traces of my childhood,
my glee, my angst, my secrets, my dreams.
Like birds her sky has allowed
come and go with seasons changing,
I too have flown miles
and oceans away from her.
My mind is not burdened
by the weight and harshness of the world,
for even when I’m cold and weary,
my home will still embrace me.
And so I will march as far as the horizons stretch,
until my shoes are tattered from journeys.
Life is not always rose-coloured glasses,
but Nosain is, and she awaits my return.