The plain glass windows
I washed with soap and sponge.

The long balconies
I scrubbed for a day’s meal as wage.

The warm roof tops
I sat down to write my poems.

The old gulmohar
Who greeted me with a mother’s love.

The cold cement steps
Where I lay down to see my biggest dreams.

The broken bits of a home
I sketch everyday on my soiled plate.

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