Migrant

A migrant, I’ve no tales of herculean tragedy to my name, you see not every trip is planned nor every destination fixed, it was a chance I stumbled upon few roads knowing one day I’ll go back, I walked hesitatingly   meeting few along ,aware that home is a person we go back to, my golden abode …

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A LONE ROVER

A lone rover wandering in, In the ancient city of Byzantium Flying through the narrow lanes Of colorful bazaars embellished. With tapestries of doe-eyed hoories Sweet aroma of brewing Turkish coffee Lingering in the air, koo hoo of pigeons In the throbbing kare pazar. Tall turquoise minarets echoing with A melodious song of bulbul seated …