There is memory of a world glimpsed but not lived
How can it be still, that the scent lingers
How can it be then, that the heart pines
If but has to be then, the impressions of lifetimes past
A village bullock, and burning leaves
The scent in winds, of rain soaked earth
The temple bells, perched on sloping cliff
Friendly runs, under blazing sun
Will this village be ever back
For my children and the lives ahead
I will miss it more, if memory serves
I pray of your, to rather leave me alone
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