Nickname of death less chambers
are memories.
The roots,are they,for whom ways
back to home are forgotten.
Still how many remains yet to forget.
The remnants of scorching past,
the seasons of feeling.
An overflow of love is
my mother.
The lender of love is
my father.
By me still no repaid
Where went that brimming childhood
a child,father,many others.
I washed on face
But still here i am
searching for memory folds in
The crooked bend to my way home.
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