The house of my childhood stood empty <br />On a grey hill <br />All its furniture gone <br />Except my grandmother's grindstone <br />And the brass figurines of her gods <br /> <br />After the death of all birds <br />Bird-cries still fill the mind <br />After the city's erasure <br />A blur still peoples the air <br />In the colourless crack that comes before morning <br />In a place where nobody can sing <br />Words distribute their silence <br />Among intricately clustered glyphs <br /> <br />My grandmother's voice shivers on a bare branch <br />I toddle around the empty house <br />Spring and summer are both gone <br />Leaving an elderly infant <br />To explore the rooms of age<br /><br />Dilip Chitre<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-house-of-my-childhood/
