In The Hills Of Seven Huts Poem by Ibohal Kshetrimayum

In the hills of seven huts,
Where war is either a name or surname,
And dreams are translated into numbers,
And a number became a gambler's sad song,
I found God breathing through the pine trees.

Orchards in the hills shivered in winter's palms,
Golden oranges plucked for city bazaars,
A young leaf wanted to go along,
Discontented orange tree held it back.

A fleeting rainbow across Noh Ka Likai,
A glimpse of her precious final steps,
Before she became a waterfall.

Twangs of hammer on hot iron,
A dagger hissed in a bucket of water,
Mylliem's blacksmiths keep their tradition throbbing.

Mylliem's giant boulders,
Memoirs of the great earthquake,
'We were cast out recklessly',
Says a mossy stone.

Sunday morning in the church,
A pair of long legs walked past a pew,
A clergyman sighed in agony.

Christmas in Shillong,
Roast turkey on the table,
Rush of stampeding shoppers,
Merchants carol their way to the bank.

A dog swallowing the moon,
Beating of empty tins, chasing the dog away,
I became a lunar-eclipse drummer in Shillong's hills.

I went down on my knees,
And asked God for my biblical rib,
And I found her snoring gently beside me,
In the hills of seven huts.