Home, a place where you feel home
and sleep like a baby, smiling
your heart in place
and soul one with the core.
Home, like the freedom, felt by
caged birds just released
not worried to get shot down
or pulled by a string unseen.
Home, where nothing matters once
lights go off
and the moon stares at you through
Home, when not your home,
like a jail in familiar space
and where, every breath taken, has
to be a silent scream.
And angels on your shoulders wary
to write down your thoughts,
not sure how to keep a secret,
what if your tormenter senses the pain?
Do you still call it home?
and will you come back
to water the withered rose plants
and keep the beehive clean?
When the siege lifts and
spring comes back
and bulbul sings on the windowsill,
announcing the arrival of freedom
and return, home to home.