Another day of sameness
Spent in a cubicle space
Silence intervened with only
Slow squeals of the ceiling fan
Fighting a limp battle
Against the resonant heat
That makes sweat trickle down
That wizened skin of his
He goes fishing in the sea of memories
Claimed by Time
The Past fills up every crevice
Of his now stunted existence
It comes creeping with stealth
Like an old enemy
Bearing cruel gifts of reminiscence.
The soul retraces its journey
Recollecting a place known as – Home.
Strange sigh of bliss shudders through the body
With memory of sketching the sky
On the familiar courtyard ground
The smell of comfort pierces deep
With memory of walls protecting against outside
Indistinct peace inches forward
With Memory of afternoon naps on
The much compressed couch.
The longing aches every fiber of being
To grow up again where he belongs.
He blinks away the abyss
He knows now too well
The role played by Time
He has traveled the road home
Far enough to know
Home is not made of dust
But of footprints in the dust
It is not made of walls
But of imprints on the walls
It is not made of stone
But of shadows against the stone.
He knows it is only
When every corner
Speaks of stories
Evokes sorrow and solace
Holds a threshold diminished with feelings
Echoes with forlorn memories
That follow you to the last breath…
Only then a home transcends as part of you
And you carry it as part of yourself.
Poet’s Bio: Arshiya is a teacher from Pakistan. She studied English Literature at Kinnaird College for Women University. She spends her time teaching creative writing and passing on the torch of literary knowledge to her students at Lahore Grammar School. Her work has appeared on The Express Tribune Blog, The Laaltain (Pakistan’s first Bilingual Online Magazine), Eastlit Journal for East and South East Asia, The Nation Blog and 360 Degree Youth.