Migration

Those days when there were destitute, And waited for morsels of rice gruel Cooked at the burning hour of noon; When fingers remained bent to hide Pus running down to gather on palms Where the life line ran short of space; When days used to break accompanied By struggles to win with much hardship; Petty squabbles reverberated on walls Of boulders and thin lime for survival; The thick guava tree that stood as mute Witness has long gone to sleep under The piece of earth upon which old men Of the family used to throw dry coughs; The witch doctor had felt short of breath And fell on his back while curing children Of the house of cholera and is at peace By the side of the well smelling menstrual Blood of the brides decked in dry flowers; Trunks of old tamarind tree vomited smokes As names upon its skin vanished one by one To appear and disappear along distant shores.