My village
Anoop Chulliode
Amidst the dung heap.
The sound of trees being
Sawed were the only gramophones we heard.
I saw the bird at close quarters
At the brink of the pond
When I was thinking of it the most
Searching for the toy
Lost beneath the hay where it was spread.
On the leafless bough of the mango tree
that I could reach out and touch
. She was shedding her plumes
There ..standing so close.
From afar my friends were coming
I din’ t call out , dint say anything.
When I looked back
It had jumped from the highest branch
To the next silveroak tree.
It’s feathers
Flowers of the silveroak!
A single red plume glided down
I put it in my trouser’s pocket .
Thinking about it all the time
I did even while I was playing.
Scooping a record of goals
I left without telling any one.
I ran home
Even shadows could not keep up.
That fast.
Reached home.
Softly very softly
To take out the feather.
Between the grass and the stones
That strayed into my pocket sometime.
No feather !
A sleep that gets up and leaves half way
Is always there in the left room
Of my house.
What a mighty expanse of empty skies!
My pocket has been,
You know ?
