The Swing

By Anweshika Mehta

In the country's embrace, a wooden house stands alone,

Where laughter once echoed and memories bloomed.

A swing sways softly in the breeze,

A relic of childhood dreams and days gone by.

A girl with eyes like summer skies, heart light as air,

Would spend days on the swing without a care.

She'd soar towards the cotton clouds, laughter trailing,

This simple joy her reverie.

But as time unfolds, pathways lead her afar,

To the bustling city's maze, where dreams spark bright as stars.

But the sky remains veiled, denying its light,

Amidst the rush, her heart yearns.

For the reminisces of scents of meadows,

The rustle of the old oak tree beneath her nimble feet.

Oh, how she longs for that simple life,

Where happiness was near, where memories hold dear.

Far from home, amidst the myriad,

The swing behind the wooden house forever sings its song,

The melody of innocence, a symphony of grace,

Guiding her through city streets to her serene.

By Anweshika Mehta