Not the place we owned, but where we belonged,
A house that held my first steps, my first song.
A garden vibrant, with fruits and foreign flowers,
Where I ran barefoot, for blissful hours.
The Bougainvillea, a cascade of bloom,
Romancing the balcony, chasing away gloom.
Pretending to cook with doll-sized delight,
Its leaves, a garnish, beneath the sunlight.
By the tranquil pond, a world all its own,
Hibiscus bloomed, worries momentarily flown.
But a flicker of fear would nudge at my heart,
As Mom reached for a bloom, a beautiful work of art.
Mangoes tossed high, a childish decree,
A gift to the fishes, swimming carefree.
The rooftop sanctuary, a haven so tall,
Coconut whispers, guarding me from a fall.
Our rooms, a playground, imagination unbound,
Crocodiles on the floor, never to be found.
The dining room’s embrace, the TV’s soft glow,
Dancing ladies stitched, on cushions below.
The drawing room held a beauty so bright,
My sister’s artwork, a colorful sight.
Fake flowers mingled with nature’s own grace,
A curated space, a peaceful embrace.
Behind the curtains, I’d silently hide,
Peeking at guests, with secrets inside.
A stealthy observer, a master of disguise,
My presence unknown, beneath watchful skies.
White walls a canvas, my artwork displayed,
A moment of mischief, a memory unfaded.
Then one morning, we left without a trace,
No final farewell, to that cherished space.
No lingering glance, at the garden so bright,
No bloom from the Bougainvillea, to hold onto tight.
No goodbyes were whispered, no closure complete,
This nameless place, strangely sweet to meet.
No deed held this ground, yet my heart claims its hold,
A whisper of “home,” a story yet untold.
Home before home, a whisper in time,
A fragment etched deep, in my memory’s chime.
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