When the war had laid, built herself a throne,On the bird's palm tree, just before my home.In the rubble and ashes, my memories did vow,n the echoes of the past, they continue to plow. I tried to quiet these memories by writing—If the hope of my return has flown away,I'll love you home from afar, but eventually will come a day—The Inkwell runs dry, and as time goes by—I'll forget,This agony—and the sadness In these voices within my head—For every word I pen Is yet written by that lonely boy,And the melody in my poems Is taken from the bird's cries and anthems of joy. Sadly, the voices echoed, whispering memories into my ears,Haunting with sorrow, and melodies of fear.Recalling Images of a boy, with glasses on his face,And wearing a white hoodie, hiding his frailty, hair, and almost half his face.Down by the tree, he'd sit alone,Burdened with hopes, never fully shown.In the shadows, he played—a loner within,Played and danced, unnoticed—just a gust of wind. And then, a bird arrived, perched upon a limb,But the memories that glimmered suddenly flickered dim.And the voices shirking, echoing one word as if it's their hymn,Wildly screaming, pen, pen, pen, pen, pen,And as the sun set, I started to pen. I wrote—With feathers of soft gray and eyes like the calm—The bird singing— a haunting psalms.Amidst the chaos, his songs and melodies remained,A bittersweet symphony, the bird's voice sweetly strained.His wings weathered every bullet, every fallen bomb,And he crooned an elegy for me, and for thy burning home.As flames flickered, the tree still standing but the leaves started to wane,And deep within, the voices still echoing, unaccountably they remained. Finally—the voices stopped echoing that word, and whispered me ashes of memories,Joy, noise, defeats, and voids—and flashes of harmonies.Singing through my mind, mazed me with thy melodies,Choking me like a slave—suffocated in thy memories,How could I endure such pain? How could I pen such agony? Then—one memory lingered for a while,my last minutes before the exile,And the voices—started echoing, and singing In rile,Hiding their pain, faking an acoustically wondering smile.While they asking, "Why! Why you are leaving home?","Leaving the neal's greenery burning alone","Your Turtle-Dove above the palm tree, yearning—noon,Missing you dearly and willing with a mournful tune".Oh home!, oh tree! let my words and tears testify this,Leaving your streets wasn't my promise, nor the separation was my wish.