Where Wild Violets Grow
by MYRYN VILLAFLOR
There’s something nostalgic about
dimly-lit roads and faded footpaths,
rickety lamp posts and over-shadowing
tree trunks, as though, they exude familiarity
like the scent of monsoon winds before it rains.
But, my own heart, would only pronounce
me a treasonist, for, over many summers,
I learnt to love the peculiarities, the oddities,
and the nonsense of this land,
this foreign land… others call home.
Copyright (C) 2013 by EvanescentMoon