Strolling down the busy streets,
With no worry of the future ,
Or regrets of past.
Reinforcing your mind of the happy chaos you are in.
With your nostrils smelling the burning of kebabs and making of bread.
The same food you collected money for to have an extravagant lunch for a day,
And the hot naan you finished on the way when asked to bring one.
The eyes spectating the vibrant lights you got excited for in childhood,
Either the old premises you call your home.
Or the same faced people you regard as your family.
Is it the feet stepping on stones we buried in our youth,
Or are they strolling down the muds we made our cottages with.
Our hearts rejoicing at the flavours of ice-creams our father got home with,
Or the relaxing tea of your mother you wait for in the veranda.
Is it the unending stories of our grandma?
Or the gracious smile of your grandpa.
The only thing you yearn for is the moment to stop.
So you can hug it tightly for it to never pass by,
And keep your beloved stuck with you as along as you're alive.
For home is where the beloved are,
Home is where our childhood was spent,
Home is where memories are.
~afreen
10:45pm
8th april 2019.
YOU ARE READING
Longed home.
PoésieA mere image of a girl stuck in nostalgia of sweet childhood and its memories spent in Quetta.Indulged in the worry of future, she departed home like a bird freed of nest.