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Of course I saw the bright red flowers
And the green leaves of Spring.
But they are not the flowers of my homeland;
The birds don't sing
The music I grew up with
In what one would call squalor
Stray dogs, Fruit vendors
And children running down the street
Sweaty days and cool baths
Neighbors' gossip.
Rain on the red dust was for me
What the flowers of spring are now to you;
I close my eyes and drink it in
While around me the flowers bloom in Spring.
It is not the color of my skin
That shuns this Spring
But a soul choking with the memory
Of an Indian Summer, and Indian Rain
In third world country on the map
But the seasons of my heart are far far away
From the Spring I see around me.

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