Posted by: Ron DuBour | December 9, 2014

MY LITTLE VILLAGE~by Anil Kumar Panda




On the lap of cone shaped hill,
Behind the smoke spewing mill,
Lies my village with three scores homes,
Some with slanted roofs some shaped like domes.

In the morning, with the break of dawn,
Dew drops melt, hit by the rays of the sun,
The birds run to the fields in search of seeds,
Farmers walk down the path with bundles of reeds.

At the far end, inside a melancholy hut,
A girl, dozing, hums a song washing a pot;
The song of a beautiful lass and her lover,
How they were chased and thrown into the river.

Alighting from the swaying boats,
The fishermen open the beguiling knots;
The banks glow with sheet of sparkling scales
The dogs run to guard the catch with swinging tails.

Dusting their places under the trees,
With tousled hairs waving in morning breeze,
Our children, before they start their morning lesson,
Sing their prayers in unison, folding hands to the rising Sun.

From inside houses are heard sounds
Of pots and pans as womenfolk going rounds;
Washing, sweeping and lighting hearth for the day
Little girls are playing in backyards making toys with clay.

Soon it will be time for men and cattle,
To be back from the fields, to take food and rest;
My village air will be filled with cacophony of birds
When gloaming descends with the sun going down in West.

Copy right @Tiku 2014

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