I can recall with mostly hazy memory
And sometimes clear as frozen water in pipes near
Rows of earthworm'd, rich dark chocolate treasure
Fingers digging, grasping harvest, at the cost of a painful ant sting
Next, a walk on cement floor and brick wall
Outside, inside, filled with smoke of kerosene, cherry and pine
I can feel the heat, I can taste it in chewy animal hide
Cooked by a mother in a black, orange and green hand-woven shawl
Swollen plums and cherry blossoms paint a dreamy countryside
Conflicted weather; rain drizzles like soft kisses
The sun, undeterred, scattering light in little rainbow'd messes
Children frolic unconcerned, lost in their games of paradise
Sometimes, a lot of times, this war is won by rain and cloud
Thundering down on loud corrugated ceiling
Streams of milky coffee trickling, gushing, flooding.
Soggy shoes and rubber boots gathered in verandahs in a crowd
I sleep to the storm and I wake up to it
The smell of mildew is familiar and stains my clothes
It's days like these the cold always seeps to your bones
I arise only to bathe in coal and electric heat
I am rich. I am poor. I am both rich and poor.
Here, gold is traded for indomitable stacks of firewood
Your money is so good if it feeds you to adulthood
Green is money: paper for you, a stew for me, we're both left wanting more
Gravelled roads and bumpy potholes lined my journey
I dreamt of blacktopped roads to a childhood rumour
Nurtured by falsehoods, that pointed to West as greater
My loud singing turned to gargling with questions of identity
Grown, I lay and let my thoughts wander- divine balm to an aching soul-
To skinned knees and traditional herbal remedies
To a spear, a holiday, a war cry sung in perfect harmonies
Echoing across mountains, swallowed and stuck in heaven's throat
Thick, overcrowded air; I breathed in bricks in the city
Lungs on the verge of collapse, looking for a change of scenery
Plastic shields guided me back home safely
The air is clear and smells like evergreen trees; it pierces through my skin
My suitcase lies half unpacked, with no constant state
And I shall leave here forever, or until the art of paddy atrophies
Even then, I'll carry these images like a vestigial phantom limb
And I'll itch and I'll groan and I'll carry on my day.
