I walk the narrow lanes of childhood years,
Where every corner holds a shadowy trace.
A sudden ghost of forgotten memory appears,
And maps this native landscape to your face.
The local joints, the quiet roadside stall,
Where once life lingered as dusk grew late,
Now wears the patient shadow of it all,
While you remain beyond the Atlantic gate.
The separate homes where you’d once retreat,
The intersecting lanes that lie between;
All landmarks in the heat of this small street,
Preserving every space of what has been.
While big city life claims all your present hours,
This distant soil still blooms with what was ours.