In the old house seated by the window,
Watching the shadows play crisscross,
I hear cheerful voices of my children,
Chatting and clattering the plates,
Aroma of hot soup making me hungry,
Nostalgia of lost moments making me sad,
Gone to the distant lands like birds of migration,
While I slog here in the winter of my life ,
What stares me back is a solitary plate,
When even she left for heavenly abode,
Leaving behind thousand aches that plague.