Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Thatched Cottage

I started from the thatched cottage
Where the oldie my mother cooked porridge 
burning dry leaves fallen and collected in bags of palm leaves
The porridge will be shared by eleven stomachs
Some times even thirteen, if the neighboring kids are starving. 

Disinterested in a half-starving porridge He left the chapel 
To the pebbled patth, with no lawns, but natural flowers blooming
Every step takes him from home to the lanes and footpaths full of coconut palms
The champa in the southern corner of his house spread fragrance and said stories of coupling in twines labyrinth. 
From lanes he came in the open
To the vast paddy fields, where his father and mother worked 
But no yield thereof satisfies their want, fill the stomach of their children

Inch by inch I moved from lane to field, to the rivulet,
 Along the rivulet I traversed the hungry stomachs and dreamy eyes. 
White cotton fly away from the plant to horizons of fear and satiety
None could weave a cloth from them, it wouldn't suffice his requirement
A song born in the depth of heart I suppressed, none would need it, 
Song that reverberated my heart was already sold, the master would say,
His master's Voice prevails; stubborn, I suppressed the song and the chant

I looked back at the torn up sides of the thatched roof
Through which my brethren saw light ; I looked back, again I looked back
There is a mom and pop that share their kids' food with the starving neighbours
A grandma to stitch slacks for men and blouses for women. 
She learnt it by mending the tears and wears, then a full blouse, for no wage. 
Poetry can dwell in piracy and poverty, and I choose poverty to piracy
I did not wait to reach my primary school that taught me my tongue and mind
And the great bards that sang for devotion and sacrament,
I returned to my home, my mother standing in smile blooming, father weighing love.

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