#river-life
“Sundar means beautiful,” the natives write—
The mangroves of south dance beneath daylight
With the flair of a gypsy drunk and bold
Swirling her skirt of salt. And callous gold
Prowls the swamp after trotting prey in flight.
The sentinels of south guard through the night
And push and pull against the windy might;
Behind their sieving shields, beliefs still hold—
Sundar means beautiful.
The men of south venture without invite
For honey, wood and fish into the plight;
The wives, like fortune, wait at the threshold
Praying and cursing gods foreign or old
As sleepless children scramble to recite—
Sundar means beautiful.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
To the shy hamlet vivid are the hardships of last year,
how the brazen river had surged in—ravishing, moulding,
branding beyond repair. And yet, when the summer air hums
in the hush before rain, once again, on the crumbling fields
rancid memories give way to emerald reveries.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 1:17 PM UTC