Rasulpur. Poem by Shouvik Narayan Hore

Here are plantain leaves of my village,
Beneath which playing our childhood had passed;
Sometimes at a distance one chastised sage
Would profoundly for hours there meditate-
Thankfully, such seclusion wasn't our fate!
With companion sisters on fields mild- grassed,
In games fully lost- though sights of a snake,
Climbing its trunks spread panicked excitement,
Then tired jumping into our ancient lake
Arose late; when finally homewards plod,
Oft watched a drowsy pilgrim under her shade,
Still were her leaves with humility bent.

When memories start to dissipate, fade,
I realize in past pleasures presences of God.