Longing For Native Land

By Shweta Chaudhary

Away from the city’s shriek,

in farms my soul exists,

and to my nose

smell of sweet mangoes reach,

flowers of mustard

dance with the wind!

Under a lush green tree,

soft breeze touches me,

gushing water from the well,

rushing to meet parched fields.

Softly a hidden nightingale sings,

to his farmer sowing seeds.

And far, far from this,

women on cart sing, laugh

under their drawn veils!

And there I see,

clouds of dust blooming,

Kids in dusty uniform,

With all fear, worries forlorn!

And glanced up to me,

in bits and bits they tease.

Wandering in a desert,

I hoard with strange league.

Dogmas, creed plagued me, to please!

A soul seized, muted.

The nightingale sang seasons,

women gaze from under their veil,

all await to see a soul free!

By Shweta Chaudhary