Mountains wore a color of clothes hung
On the edge of the road and live women
And lama boys in ocher smiles who ran
From sky to sky across mud mountains.
The women there sat on a high culvert
Who had come down from mountains.
And the children in red school uniform
Had slid down slopes to say A for apple.
Only in rains they had loose character.
They’d let go harsh boulders on roads.
They sometimes rumbled like thunder
In menacing dark clouds of our nature.
Just when we smell a spring in the air
There is wave after wave of a hot sun.
We fall to earth like the neem flowers
Of a new season , with scent in the air.
Neem flowers are a sweet vernacular.
We smell our neem with a bitter taste
But they are our moonlight’s granules
And fruit promises nipped in the bud.
We live by promises by the moonlight
About wave after wave of fresh moons.
Our falls will be like our neem flowers
Bitter but fragrant like the new spring.