Cardamon and Cascades
I no longer hear the sounds of my homeland
The whistles and hums, constructions’ cacophony
In their place, I only hear silent onomatopoeia.
The hum and churn of chai, loud whispers
Soft singing birds, Crickets chirping
Yet I miss the genuine city sneeze
The emptiness I felt currently
Is one of a telenova
It’s blessed that I am histrionically free
Still how few friends come just for me
