[Work: Pravaasa Chumarile Chithrangal]
In the sojourn,
Acting safely, celebrated the festivals.
Winning words in the wind of the desert,
As the paintings of the migration.
After the credits and debits,
Unless I go back,
I can't rise in the cold mornings.
No one will ask,
When would I come back?
I can't write about my sweat.
But when it rains in my village,
A cool breeze flows in the mind.
Forgetting the accounts.
Becoming one of the memories-
Of my love, like any expat.
My homeland is a big cemetery.
Built in those flowers of memory.
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