By ATIA ANWARI
Upon touching her cold crinkled antique skin,
My dear oma stirred with strain.
Gazing into her eyes of gold belonging to an infinite world,
I see through the reflection of her past whirled.
I long for her embrace that hushed my solitude.
I await the scent of field of flowers she religiously carried.
With thousands of miles across,
Her amiable smile will never fade from mind.