Smell Of The Past

The touch of my mother
Has now turned into water
That runs in my body
And feeds the brain fodder
It dilutes my blood maybe

The soft edge of the earth
Reminds me of the end of her sari
She made the bells hung in the balcony tinkle
When she hung the clothes on the clothesline to dry

I called the child next door to drop by
I offered dreams on a tray shaped oval
And said visit me anytime
I am always in even if the space looks not occupied

The bells tinkled long after they stopped
I swayed in the house with the tray loaded with dreams
looking for the soft edge of the earth
Walking on the polished granite tiles