Dear Granny,

I saw someone
a week ago,
In the streets
on my way back home..

Her wrinkled skin burnt by the Sun
Her attire frayed and patched with dust
An empty oil can of crumpled tin
A humble sum peeks shyly from within
Her hand stretched, a cup formed from her palms
It shakes too furiously to beg for alms
She speaks a language alien to me
Yet her eyes tell me a universal story
A tale of a debt that was never paid
Kindness was dealt a hand of apathy instead
And the care with which a seedling grows
Was not returned as winter crept close
Because fall came and went, and the old leaves are spent
Shed across the city streets, with none to speak for the dead

Like the world around me I know not
why I should care
Her face is that of a stranger to me
Yet I keep waking up
on account of these dreams
A similar picture, a similar scene
And at the heart of it
The face is yours,
Granny.

Love,
Soham