It's another cold evening,
one of the coldest in December.
I hear the wind chime in the balcony above,
along with the voice of someone
telling her child to drink milk.
It reminds me of the good old times.
To forget that, I walk along.

You say poverty unsettles you,
but each cold night, you recount to me,
Amidst the usual tears,
the same old tale of how you raised me.
How, even this house here seems unreal.

You talk of how even milk was a luxury,
And how we didn't have a warm bed.
But you recount how you still,
sent me to a school well beyond our worth,
because you had high hopes for me.

You say poverty unsettles you,
but each time you talk,
I can only remember you,
working two jobs with vigour,
On a half empty stomach.
For as long as I can remember,
you barely had two square meals a day.
Sometimes I wondered how someone,
with so small a frame, work so hard.

Sometimes in a fit of sadness,
I tell you that you never understood me.
But regret is greater than anger and
It disappoints me to disappoint you.
So, I keep those accusations inside.

You say poverty unsettles you,
As you recount long summer nights,
Without a fan to our aid,
And evenings lit with candles,
Because electricity was a luxury.

You tell me how I was a delightful kid,
never complaining of the heat.
Eating whatever was given,
sleeping however harsh the weather was,
smiling and being cheerful.
And I wonder if I you'd believe me,
if I tell you the truth.

You narrate tales of all the shacks
that we inhabited and made our home,
only to move out again, soon.
You told me how your books,
were the only thing that kept you going.
You scoff at the idea of hobbies.
You say you killed all of them to survive.

Resting on this warm bed,
Sometimes seems so unreal,
That I stay awake almost all nights.
Maybe I wasn't made for this comfort.
You say poverty unsettles you.
But I wonder if that is what
Would actually settle me.