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
Aug 29, 2019
Aug 29, 2019 at 8:20 PM UTC
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