Oldhome

 My son doesn't come

Every weekend

 I wait for him,

He won't,

My grey hair, glass on my eyes

Doesn't matter.

My son lives in the USA

Working day nights in the bar.

Sometimes forget to call me and sometimes never

He thinks it's a duty on him to support me 

But living in an old home

Doesn't matter.

I wait for a long period for him

My cakes, flowers, Chocolates

Everything on the table

Also biryani, the main dishes, 

Waiting for him.

But he doesn't call me back

Are the USA culture

Make him,

Different? living like a rootless?

Is he is now rude, like robotics

I'm dying in the cage name old home

My every breath wants to see my son 

For the last moment for my last every second!

The nurse pushed me injections 

I'm dying.

I know after my death he will come to sell my property

Asking everyone for loyalty.

But to my sons

Have you ever felt how much money you need to pay for an old home?

And how much do I pay for you?

Yeah, Maybe my fault

I can not...

Maybe this cage by the name of old home

Never ended

Cause you forget me, you throw me

Like trash.

Just want my cash.........

Always, maybe my fault I can't teach you 

Morality,

For this reason 

At the end of life facing this cruelty.