I rue my estranged home unchanged ten years on. 

But in my moments I miss the rustic west of the Abode of the clouds.

Like a ghost I'd roamed every foot of that wild west,

And it comes back to haunt my moments of loneliness.

The day I set my foot there was the dark part,

People clad in heavy clothing complete with shawls,

Loaded with the day's purchases and petrol torches,

Took me back to scenes from some Eastwood movies.

Their rugged look and bettle red mouths stirred my fears,

But I learned to revere them even more gradually.

I often stared at the white sky with blue patterns,

That seemed to be placed to perfection by an artist.

There was a hazy halo around the sky.

It was nature at its best granting a glimpse of the divine.

Evening sky was an art gallery of unequalled artists.

Winter was the only unforgiving aspect of this land,

The cold could freeze your emotions,

The relentless fog wipes clean the impressions in the sky.

But then one always enjoyed freshly rolled tobacco,

And the stroll to some wooden house for a drink or two,

When you crossed path with some wasted drunks.

One of those nights still linger in my mind,

Memory smeared with taste of tobacco and Dan Seals.

West somehow brings a charm of its own.

That's the charm beckoning me to return to the Abode of the clouds.