You look so mysterious, at the first glance,
What you are, guessing has no chance,
Simple, rustic, thatched huts, surrounded by palms,
A Community haat, around a majestic dome!
The Clouds of dirt Columns
Emanates out of the ‘developed' earth,
Throttling lives indiscriminately.
As they ascend and join their smog kins,
The road to my village
Is donned with
Lines of plants and trees,
Names of some I know
when winter tends to
confluence with summer,
frozen time melts down
and spring springs up.
She is nonagenarian now,
Her heart bits slow.
Lungs pump reluctantly,
Cranial bones groan in pain,