Darkness descends with birds chirping
in the trees, eager to find a resting place.
I wade through the stream; cold water
drenches my shoes and socks. I clamber
up the bank on the other side thinking
about the warmth that awaits.
The darkness is ominous; all is suddenly
quiet. The birds have settled in the trees, somewhere
She feels love for her mother, or maybe, she feels
grief waiting for her lover, who comes through
the gully, waving a silken handkerchief.
I climb the hill again, years later
and cross the stream, faintly lit
by a waning moon. The ripples
in the water, gather around
my wet shoes, that I don’t bother
to take off.
My village is deserted, but I hear
her voice that loiters around
like a ghost, questioning
the visitor who comes through
the gully waving
a silken handkerchief.
On the higher side, the mountain
is devoured by a dark goddess.
On the lower side, a cliff, where
she fell down from a tree
before I could tell her the news
I brought from Bhinkathori.
Please read the related posts