My home…
A decoration of my mother.
Work of my father.
Where comfort is at every place.
My war with a sibling and strong weapon slippers.
To play with toys or to steal biscuits.
All I celebrate in a home.
Even my home does not provide luxury
It can never be replaced by my relative's beautiful home.
The best part where I spend my time the balcony
where many birds sound together.
In the box, they prepared nest with hard work
every day I observe them carrying leaves
Their patience of making their home.
The home where they lay eggs.
I have no idea how many generations have taken birth and grown up.
Their home is not luxury but the need of their survival.
Their home is nothing for me but leaves, branch.
And my bed is meaningless for them.
One’s home is beautiful for one.