Home

A thatched roof, they say,
Holding shine and rain at bay,
A place that's warm and safe,
Sans discomfort or srife,
Where one's greeted by smiles,
And faces and sounds familiar,
Where neither men,
Nor food is alien,
Where smiles, not words welcome,
They call many things home,

But who knows the true meaning of it,
Of a home's open doors,
That it lies not in an array of bricks,
Or in frangrant smoke of cooking food,
That home's a force that beckons,
A warmth that calls, arms outstretch'd,
Into the arms of a woman,
Who's waiting to serve the love she holds.