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In an old thatched house,
In an inhabitated corner,
Of a ghost village,
Lived an old woman.

Aged not in years, but in struggles and tears,
guised with prematured grey hair,
Empty mouth, wrinkling skin,
And unsupporting nerves.

Every morning she'll place a wooden bench in the front of her home,
Her eyes transfixed on the weed ridden road,
Looking for her only son,
Her first and last born.

A son that had gone to the city for years now,
To acquire knowledge to redeem her.
At least , she had thought
But had long been devoured.
Devoured by the lights of the city

Days turned into weeks,
Weeks into months,
Years into decades,
Still no signs for the homecoming.

With undying hope and patience,
She never missed her daily routine,
News had it that her son had graduated and had a government job,
Her smile that day electrifies he dark cubicle. 

For days her nights were full of delight,
Dreams of living in a house that glows at night,
Dreams she shared not because, someone might think she's insane.

The monsoon breeze of December hit hard,
Her strength gave in,
She could no longer sit outside,
Her ears now her eyes.

She heard sirens,
She saw a Bentley,
A Bugatti,
Oh, it was a Land Cruiser!


The Cruiser stopped halfway to her mansion, as it had turned out to be
My son will rebuild this,
With shinning zincs,
Her weeks' hunger fed her thoughts.

Why haven't him been here yet?
A hand brought her back from her mansion
Is it you Ibrahim? She hugged the hand
But the hesitation in the hand embarrassed her.

She opened her eyes
In the dark, she could see a figure but can't tell if this was her hope
"How could we tell her this?"
Her bright sight heard

Her hungry heart thumped
"What is it?"
The cries of her neighbors she sees as laughter informed her enough.
She gave the ghost before she could see her hope.
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