Memory lane, boy, it’s a beautiful street
Lined with the trees of the times gone by
With cobbled stone just like the one in my grandmum’s porch
And scattered dried leaves for the times we cried

There is a distinct smell in the air
Just like the pickle in the jar that sat on that windowsill
The wind is warm like that tight embrace,
That helped heal me when I was ill

There are some flowers at a distance I see
They look happy, like the ones in my grandmum’s garden
There is that familiar holy basil too
That she plucked each morning for veneration

The lane fades away at a distance,
Dissolving into a mist of oblivion
The porcelain teacups and that pickle jar remain
But only till I am gone