Remembering His Natives Poem by tanya mishra

Across the valley;
apart from these rallies'
remembering the beautiful song not the one I'm is hearing since long.
The lakes are not brackish and the sky isn't cloudy
that's much more better than spending our days with rowdy.
The roads are unmettaled and the flowers are not petaled.
But everyone are still settled and every house is having a kettle.
the doors didn't had bolts but all the hearts were gold.
I'm brought here to be sold though i didn't yet properly roll.
I was five
when i dived
and then i flinched
out of my natives when i was pinched.