He sat on the balcony of the penthouse that fell on the empty playground of the building
And looked; as if some distinct memory came back to him.
This wasn’t the place where he, a 2 year old ate sand,
broke a nose, lost those marbles...yelled...kicked...cried.
This wasn’t the place either. Where his swing swayed so high...
as to become the aeroplane...and the slide was a roller coaster to death.
But he loved it here.
"Strange it is" he thought.
To collect those little bits of paper from different nowheres
each with its bit of the story
Stick them together...no matter what order
and call them life.
His memories of childhood-their hazy, dusty silhouettes
he tried to gather them...as if they were etchings on the sand
that were soon to be blanketed in foaming waves
"Is it just me?" he whispers, leaning against the parapet
"Or no one has any coming back", he thought,
letting the view seep into his memoirs, lest the bug of time erode it
like all others "homes". For when he would come back here, later,
he wouldn’t but find the newness...that time has brought and not an inch of what he left...
His bags packed, this was his last day in this place...that he used to call home
and them there would be a new home to go. A new place to wake up in.
A new view to admire. Starting from the scratch again. And much more newness,
than his 16 year old brain can behold.
"Click click click" his camera went
haphazardly about the place...like it had with many others.
Down in the lane-a caravan stopped
Settling the camera on the parapet, he senses her shy smile as her eyes settle on his face.
She looks away, barking orders of supplies...as the dusk set and she was to keep moving
While he stares...
"i'm no different than she" he thinks. And happiness reflects in her sway of hand, as she
waves at him, from her moving caravan.
He doesn’t wave back... but smiles -"it isn’t just me" "that was caught between a few
nowheres"-"and didn’t know where i belong" "it isn’t just me"
"that learned to move on-just with as much i came with"
"it was just me-who didn’t belong anywhere...unlike she, the bird of free skies"
"I ain’t now”, “between a few nowheres"
"But I belong to those few somewhere-that were special to me
And no matter how much distorted they are by the play of time
I carry bits and pieces of them which is my luggage...
And my life, a caravan."
And looked; as if some distinct memory came back to him.
This wasn’t the place where he, a 2 year old ate sand,
broke a nose, lost those marbles...yelled...kicked...cried.
This wasn’t the place either. Where his swing swayed so high...
as to become the aeroplane...and the slide was a roller coaster to death.
But he loved it here.
"Strange it is" he thought.
To collect those little bits of paper from different nowheres
each with its bit of the story
Stick them together...no matter what order
and call them life.
His memories of childhood-their hazy, dusty silhouettes
he tried to gather them...as if they were etchings on the sand
that were soon to be blanketed in foaming waves
"Is it just me?" he whispers, leaning against the parapet
"Or no one has any coming back", he thought,
letting the view seep into his memoirs, lest the bug of time erode it
like all others "homes". For when he would come back here, later,
he wouldn’t but find the newness...that time has brought and not an inch of what he left...
His bags packed, this was his last day in this place...that he used to call home
and them there would be a new home to go. A new place to wake up in.
A new view to admire. Starting from the scratch again. And much more newness,
than his 16 year old brain can behold.
"Click click click" his camera went
haphazardly about the place...like it had with many others.
Down in the lane-a caravan stopped
Settling the camera on the parapet, he senses her shy smile as her eyes settle on his face.
She looks away, barking orders of supplies...as the dusk set and she was to keep moving
While he stares...
"i'm no different than she" he thinks. And happiness reflects in her sway of hand, as she
waves at him, from her moving caravan.
He doesn’t wave back... but smiles -"it isn’t just me" "that was caught between a few
nowheres"-"and didn’t know where i belong" "it isn’t just me"
"that learned to move on-just with as much i came with"
"it was just me-who didn’t belong anywhere...unlike she, the bird of free skies"
"I ain’t now”, “between a few nowheres"
"But I belong to those few somewhere-that were special to me
And no matter how much distorted they are by the play of time
I carry bits and pieces of them which is my luggage...
And my life, a caravan."
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