In remembering ,it was locusts of then
A child loved to bring down one by one
From their Siberian existences, as they
Would chew the Siberia leaves together.
A child has no idea of all time memory
Nor of a collective conscious nor myth.
But now the child is a big fat old man
Bigger than man and becomes a part
Of everyone’s memory for small time
Before ,like locust he is brought down
Bit by bit , then ceases to be anybody
Except Bible locust for Sunday church.
Big fat old man waits to be the locust
What his child brought down in bush
A mere yellow leaf of a remembering
In garden floor waits to turn compost.
( Waves of locusts used to raid village crops in our childhood .Children loved it as a sport to bring them down one by one)