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

the roof.

But

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.