The shrill of harmattan,
Along the daring edifice;
A melancholic sun,
And the pensive crowd.
They’ve dulled his ears,
And blurred his sight—
For decades now.
But the mind’s avenue,
Hesitant to close down,
Still holds a mirage, an oasis;
In green meadows,
With grazing cattle,
And the cuckoo’s song;
Where swish of a catfish,
Stirs the meandering streams.
Supper by the fire;
Spicy fish dish.
Trapped in obsessions—
Reiterating memoirs!
The expatriate, a hostage,
Cradled by emotions;
The hunger of his child,
Devotion to his parents,
Dreams of his bride—
Makes hearth a mirage,
Calling him back home.
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