There was once a house far away,
tugged in hills,
I called it home.
A total of eight feet made the
ground tremble in rapture.
These tiny feet conquered
everything from love to wrath,
and crowded themselves at the
feet of a woman who, in her
warmth, kept us
This lady, with her heart so large,
taught us to see beyond our tiny
she taught us that our windows
and the best way to experience the
world is to be there outside in its
So we stood with our lips parting
and eyes closed,
and allowed ourselves to be
bombarded with cold and blocked
But we grew up here,
a place away from hills,
where the birds above screech in
and windows are always closed.
These feet of ours grew life of their
and for the rest of time in the city
they staggered and moaned.
They kept shifting and sprinting
until there were left only few.
And at last when we finally came
back to the house in the hill,
there were not eight,
but there were only four black and
We meet the old woman and asked
her why does she still speak of those mornings;
pointing towards the tree that was
once only a plant,
She shook it's branch and what fell
down was a fruit,
unspoiled and beautifully whole.
she passed it to me and told me
how the goodness that our past
carries simply have a life of its
although those tiny feet might not
be tiny and gentle anymore,
the seeds sown by them have
nothing but flowers to offer for the spring that is yet might never
Woman with a Parasol - Madame Monet and Her Son by Claude Monet