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Sep 2014
The cottage is old and the garden trees have overgrown,
The long missed smells of mother’s food…
Oh, what joy to eventually come home!

Shrill morning breaks to the call of crows
As the sun rises from behind prison walls.
A reminder yet again, Light alights in sleeping hours,
Daylight brings hell, the unvoiced tortured wails
Which cry out for the Light.
But it plays tantalizing games at night
And leaves the mornings in the hand of the jailor.
No friend, no foe, no merchant nor sailor
Will ever come to see…
We’re alone in our six square feet cells
Us, and the haunting drum roll of the surrounding sea.
Written in 2011, upon visiting the Cellular Jail in the Andaman Islands.
Hiraeth
Written by
Hiraeth  Delhi, India
(Delhi, India)   
  3.8k
     ---, Rose, --- and Weeping willow
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