I read between the lines
of black and white faces,
that stare, unblinking,
from the other side of a dream,
a child born free *******
on the fruits of a lost Empire.

The memories are slippery, sweet,
like the ripe flesh of a mango
squelched between eager fingers
stained by the heat of summer.
Shady like the flaming canopy
of a gul mohur tree,
dancing abandoned like a
rubber slipper, bobbing carefree
on a warm ocean wave that
carried my seed across the miles
on forgotten promises
into the arms of a dark night.

Searching for the colour,
I hear the cacophony of racing tongues,
uncommon wealthy mouths closed
to the stench of the natives rotting
like sardines packed into tin can shelters.

In the blackness they awaken me
like a telegram from a long lost relative
arriving on the next train from nowhere
laden elephant like, tin trunks filled
with the treasures still hidden somewhere
in the bottom drawer of my mind.

The technicolour *** bits wrapped
in faded fragments of my imagination,
tied with the string of longing that tugs
back to the creation of this child
ripping open a present from the past.

Unaware of the black and white gaze,
she runs wild, abandoned,
innocent, invisible
child of loves lost dream,
her playground a museum
of passion and pain.

Born free ******* on the fruits of a lost Empire.