Longing a home

I have a memory, a kajri
and country of easy bruises.
I have a window and a nameless space 
inhabited by a fabric
breathing in holes. 

I have ridges and a mountain
bred in colors and discords. And a culture
of broken hearts surrounded by a sea-the keeper of secrets.

I have a canvas tainted 
with water. A mouth
of many forgotten verses.

I have songs, blood 
and roads
which stem and shoot like
fever trees
leading nowhere.

I have a heart full of stories
that neither heal nor ache with love. 
And perhaps 
somewhere a tethered sound of a shehnai
I sometimes barely hear.