No one rings the bell
At the sad house.
No kids to resonate
Within the broken panes
And desolate shards.
The green path remains , myopic
and listening as far the horizonal walls.
Vibrant blushes of mistletoe
Hug it hard ; none to kiss them
None to burn it and smoke ;
Though the scent of burnt Bibles
The temple bells do not reach here
The tall, disappointed mango trees
Eat them up.
As are the deep calls of azan`,
Absorbed by the hungry moss.
The only visitors come, wearing black,
Holding on tight to their handfuls of earth
Later, they slither away into rainbow colours
And far ; never to return, followed by the
tittering wind and the smirking sun.
Only the huntsman, searching for tombs ;
Him, with a rose at his arrow tip
Sees the river beyond,silent and waiting
Holding melting Stories, and rain murmurs inside
Seas, her breath that rises in girlish curls.
A tiny salmon,
Struggling against her frozen sheets.