MUD

It calls me to a place, where I used to play in the muddy ground.
The same mud, where I was born and brought up.

I used to roll along the steep sandy dunes,
filling my pocket with the soft silky mud.

I used to craft it into tiny little toys on a muddy beach,
and scratched my name again and again.

It remind me the petrichor that spread after the rain,
and the fragrance of the flowers that shoots in the same mud.

Thirst vividly remind me of the pot,
who potter used to shape using the same mud.

Darkness remind me the broken muddy lamp,
which my mother used to light every night.

But I am not afraid, as a tryst with the mud is all set.
In a way, I am confident.
As I knew, I am nothing but mud.