Mud Houses
the houses
in my paradise
are rusty, muddy,
broken and hurt..
our houses have seen
years of turmoil
they are bloodied,
exploited by time..
i reminisce my hometown,
when i see the glimpses
of merry houses on hills,
and hustling markets around..
i remember our naivety
humility,
our poverty and pain..
i feel the mothers'
wounded hearts,
shrouded dead, graves
and erroded lives..
in all this,
i recall the smell
of my soil,
its marks my identity,
my soul
and my ultimate refuge!
Tanzila
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