in the corner of the hut
where it leaked in least,
listening to rain's symphony
beating the thatched roof,
my granny's feather-touch pat
fondling my baby-cheeks,
I saw them, my unseen elfish pals,
swinging on the tip of her rainbow
tales,
criss-crossing my dreams.
They would walk me my days
as starved child of a hungry home.
As I sat idling in the shade
of the ancient mango tree
sprawling outside home,
leaning on to her fragile form
looking at the burning sun
beating the village lanes,
her familiar odor exuding love,
I saw them, my proud ancestors,
reaching out to me in her thin voice,
brightening my inner vision.
They would walk me my years
as unhappy youth of a betrayed land.
Now, I have no rainbows
to hang my seraphim dreams on,
nor such lullaby-soft voice
to invoke ancestral spirits.
Starved am I, but not hungry,
unhappy am I, but not for the land.
As thunderstorm conspires with downpour
I still search for a wrinkled yet
cloud-soft hand to pat me.
As I tread heavy steps out to the sun,
I still hear it soft: sweetheart,
tread calm, the dust is full of them.
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