Where is my room, of plants and garden,
Of etched walls with Victorian patterns,
Paint of violet and tangerine, like it’s folding the sky to night,
Some hopeful vase at the corner,
dreaming to bloom with the scents of passerby,
Curtains so close to windows,
listening every bit of seasons’ change,
while the chimes stops clinging at monsoon.

Where is my room, of warm water and steam,
Of polished tiles engraved for every tear shed under the showers,
Powered rain by fictional memories,
burning every inch of skin on forgotten words,
picked one by one till it ended at the corner of the bathroom.

Where is my room, of notes and prints,
Of wall staked with letters and words from the wisdoms,
Filled with all the knowledge summoned into only one piece of paper like it is yesterday,
Turns come up when I chose to move further in stories,
but halts at every word with a push between gasps,
Lightening the minds of present for the future so can be taken care till they bloom.

Where is my room with doors and windows,
Of glasses and wood to show stains put up by the neighbours,
By the people loved but brought scratches,
like punishments for believing and trusting,
they were casual unaware of the just of my attention and affection,
May be I have burned but still living in ashes to cover my wounds as I believe it is the only cure for every doom.