Nickname of death less chambers are memories. The roots,are they,for whom ways back to home are forgotten. Still how many remains yet to forget. The remnants of scorching past, the seasons of feeling. An overflow of love is my mother. The lender of love is my father. By me still no repaid Where went that brimming childhood a child,father,many others. I washed on face But still here i am searching for memory folds in The crooked bend to my way home.