In my dream, I walk through the azure days of my childhood. The gentle breeze carries the sweet fragrance of jasmine petals, mingling with the scent of blooming gulmohar trees. Days when weddings were arranged, and old copper pots and gleaming silver spoons bore new names. The gentle sound of mom's hands rolling out rotis fills the kitchen, as I watch them rise in the warmth of the hearth.
autumn dusk
stars settle gently
in open palms
Having crossed many oceans, the homeland I left behind is a soft echo—its presence lingering in my heart. Suspended between two worlds—past and present—I feel the lingering taste of pomegranates, a gentle brush of that distant home.
gentle whispers
the ocean’s pull
in a quiet room