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.. 


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