The twilight's incense has turned into a small heap;
the prayers are asleep
and God is making himself comfortable
in the wooden frames.
The stove still has some faint fire that shall eventually turn cold too
and in the entire village all I shall be left with is a dream
to walk through the cold night awake and alive.
I might be greeted by some dying wishes,
some thatched huts, some weakened souls,
collapsed walls, a haunted field weeping whole night.
He had smiled a joy, believing a cart was standing to carry him.
When the need to tell shall really arise you may just faintly touch me.
My grandchild ran after a floating balloon
an orphan self of mine in the merry go round,
he tried to get hold of a mirage.
The indebted dreams sold themselves in the bid,
slipping like sand, a moment and moments.
In the village fair, a love lost
and a memory returned back home
quietly on a bicycle;
giving grief a new name
in a small bag the flanks of the one lost
like a quaint small boat on the nights river
carrying a corpse whose last wish was to sail or perhaps to fly.
As on the roof of my Assam type house, rain writes indiscreet letters
addressing my ancient hamlet
and stabs on all my dreams that sculpt whole day beside me;
but are no more thus,
a trench of moments weaved from past memories survive.
When the march passes by the front lane
I shall offer my last respect and inscribe on their tombstone.
And when night follows,
I shall curl digging into myself for a company, a consoling human touch
little asked for a deep misery, an oasis of life in the field of withered flowers.
Aman Saa's Other Poems
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
The poem itself took a long time, time is its story thus.
*Assam type house is the traditional house built in assam with tin roof.
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