My marginal loss
Was a gain
In serendipity of
Getting lost
On my old village road
Taking hold of familiarity
Plucking tomatoes, ladies' fingers
from the farm;
I kept on following
Petrichor of the fragrant soil
Through the golden drops
Of the rising sun
Cool breeze wafting
Cow bells tolling
Azaan and prayers
Village murmur and lazy talk
Turban and sarees
Holding my legs on a fly
As I was gaining my loss
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