It was an usual place of worship but quaintly strong,
in a quintessential town of my ancestral home;
A mosque not awfully grand but a modest one,
the same maker was revered in both the sanctum.
Frolicking within its calcimined walls, I felt proud,
resting under its whitewashed dome, did astound;
Other than peace, the courtyard had one more beauty,
stood out from neighbouring things dull and measly.
There was a silk-cotton tree markingly sprawled,
as pretty as a crimson patch on a soiled shawl;
Planted near a well in that courtyard, I firmly recall,
its coral shade fell upon devout before every fall.
Memoirs of silk-cotton blooms dangling low,
harks me back in time even now, can see its glow;
I still recall that ordinary place of prayer,
it was close to my heart, it was a house fairer.
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