Pale Orange Dust
Thorn forests left open Over the hot stretch of land Highly tall with outrighted hands There is no shade under the palm trees
Laid with cement walls Broken over the sides Channel having small squirms of water Runs quietly as a tiptoed girl
Dried dung smells over the breeze Evening plays in the orange dust A group of shirtless boys Cross fast the forlorn street Shrieking sound subtle the dust
It is the village Where I was born Where the leaves of succulent plants Were plucked to kill the girl children The dust remains orange as of those days With little paleness in colour I name the village, As, Where I was once born And Survived..
~ Ahila..
Laid with cement walls Broken over the sides Channel having small squirms of water Runs quietly as a tiptoed girl
Dried dung smells over the breeze Evening plays in the orange dust A group of shirtless boys Cross fast the forlorn street Shrieking sound subtle the dust
It is the village Where I was born Where the leaves of succulent plants Were plucked to kill the girl children The dust remains orange as of those days With little paleness in colour I name the village, As, Where I was once born And Survived..
~ Ahila..
