Smell of freshly churned butter tea
Coming from our 4 ft. square kitchen,
In our small home back in Bir
Where our long sighs tell our grief
And our happy giggles entail our joy
Found in smallest form 
A pair of new socks, a new school bag.
Those were the kinds of Losar we used to look forward to.
But now we have built a new house
No memories of you embedded in any corner
My sister tells me we each have our own separate rooms
But it feels cold, she says
Without your presence, it will remain a house
And even with the new house,
I am still homeless.