The plain glass windows
I washed with soap and sponge.
The long balconies
I scrubbed for a day’s meal as wage.
The warm roof tops
I sat down to write my poems.
The old gulmohar
Who greeted me with a mother’s love.
The cold cement steps
Where I lay down to see my biggest dreams.
The broken bits of a home
I sketch everyday on my soiled plate.
Lirio's Wanderings 