My Poetry Classroom

I used to write poems In a straw-thatched hut Under the bela trees Adjoining the cowshed, Under the moonlit nights Sitting on a dry riverbed Full of sands Away from the stream of little waters Flowing at the middle During the hot summer, I used to write Going atop the hills And sitting on a rock, I used to On the grey rock lying In the midst of the narrow rivulet Of the plateau region Passing in between the hills, I used to While grazing buffaloes and cows Lowing over the fields and fallows With the bells round the neck Tinkling, lulling the landscape, While visiting the graveyard Lying in the secluded tract Leading to the country, A little away from the town way, Sitting in a bower Sometimes accompanied By my youngest brother, Sometimes in the woodland Stopping by the way To catch the scenic view of it, Sometimes during the summer midday O used to write after stopping under A lonely gulmohar tree Of the solitary red soiled way Leading to farms, Sometimes in the library Reading books, seeing olden works, The lonely leafless palash tree, but clustered With reddish, orange blooms, Sometimes after seeing the vultures Seated atop the leafless simul trees But decorated with bulging red blossoms.