When I come home,
it is the same house.
I miss the people who made it home,
welcoming me with a full smile,
a leaping heart and a sigh of relief.
My parents, the old, fragile beings,
doomed to spend their lifetime
toiling, travelling, tending.
Working in village schools,
teaching two different languages
to teenagers struggling to find their own language,
they stayed away from their children on compulsion;
a price they gladly paid for opting
to stay in the village, their homeland.
A price they paid dearly for opting
to send their children away for studies.
Now the house is just a house.
They are gone, all services rendered,
all prices paid, they left for their havens,
leaving this husk of a family,
this house, a monument of all the pains,
the silent sufferings, the sacrifices,
the tears, the frustrations,
the despair, the disappointments,
the victories, the rejoicings,
the laughter,the mirth.
My home, A monument.