Cool evenings and black night skies,
tempered by a softly glowing moon
never fail to bring back childhood times.
Places and people now long gone,
leaving only scattered memories behind.
My favorite haunt then and I was ten,
was an Indian barber shop
at the end of the street.
A wooden bench which had seen better days,
bid its welcome come rain or shine.
Without fail and always on the hour,
murukku, an Indian pretzel was given freely.
Chomping with gusto on the chakli
while immersed in the strains of Indian music
became a part of my nightly routine.
Those times were sweet milestone memories of days gone by…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The good memory of childhood is like a little flower that grows up with the passage of time. You wrote in a very natrual way. I enjoyed reading your childhood fragment.
Thank you, Cigeng. It's a nostalgic piece of memory which evokes a sense of the culture at that time.