Migration Poem by Anil Kumar Panda

Those days when there were destitute,
And waited for morsels of rice gruel
Cooked at the burning hour of noon;
When fingers remained bent to hide
Pus running down to gather on palms
Where the life line ran short of space;
When days used to break accompanied
By struggles to win with much hardship;
Petty squabbles reverberated on walls
Of boulders and thin lime for survival;
The thick guava tree that stood as mute
Witness has long gone to sleep under
The piece of earth upon which old men
Of the family used to throw dry coughs;
The witch doctor had felt short of breath
And fell on his back while curing children
Of the house of cholera and is at peace
By the side of the well smelling menstrual
Blood of the brides decked in dry flowers;
Trunks of old tamarind tree vomited smokes
As names upon its skin vanished one by one
To appear and disappear along distant shores.