The task on hand is easy;

Search for a lane where
the air is rusty and bleeding
by the long absence of a beloved son.

Spot the house with
walls like long-lost childhood;
newly grown mosses fighting against
skewed alphabets, inverted numerals
and memories of a young child.

Look for a father waiting with that favourite dish,
compensating the extra spice with a face full of
smile and moustache.

Hear the silence of the bird’s long-lost song,
of toys tied up in trees
and the marbles that reappear from the soil.

The task on hand is easy;

walk back like yet another stranger,
knocking on the wrong doors
in this scorching heat of summer.