Testy, desultory or heavenly,
Bright as theism or atheistic blind,
Devoid of twenty-first harum-scarum,
But not a dormouse of the nineteenth,
Nothing is my village, yet all.
Perfect are a few weeks of spring here
even without the famed flowering flora,
The acacia prickles smile
among the lush green branches,
Nature’s soldiers last; the green army retreating fast.
Not nature’s compassion soft,
Nor concrete’s girdle hard,
Soil’s warmth scent or burn,
Villagers enjoy the extremes both,
While, the oxen envy the master’s stamina.
Law abiding, if they ignore,
Awareness shows only the opposite,
Rises humanity with the sun,
Skilled and unskilled
live here lifefully most.
The summers pass, remain as they
cool to the facilitated islands,
Easily strolls the cold, stay as they warm
to the icy deprivations,
Such are the people here.
Aspire they only a harvest good,
Loss-gain being the sequence,
Teasing nature throws them
on the hard but motherly soil,
Live where they as simple villagers.
No comments:
Post a Comment