The laughter’s
gone from this heart.
the
lamplight’s gone from this home;
the
threshold, the corners are dark,
the ones
who’d lit it up depart
for
cities from where no letters come;
for
cities that no one returns from.
The
water’s as tall as the crops -
the
river’s too full of herself,
ear by
ear the grain starts to rot,
the
young scatter in search of jobs,
the old
watch unable to help;
the lamp
stands unlit on its shelf.
The
fathers can keep their eyes dry
and keep
their words clipped and brief;
but they
pause far too much, they sigh,
and their
lips suddenly pull awry;
the
mothers are too bowed to weep
gone to
places even beyond grief.
The
water stands as high as the rice
the
harvest has stopped in its tracks;
the lamp
flickers once before it dies -
the light
lays its head on the thighs
of the
dark and the young men pack
for
cities, and they don’t come back.
We’re
become the shell of a house.
We’re
become the shell of a loving.
See how
our garments fall loose.
See how
our proud heads are bowed.
Once
here the bulbul used to sing,
she’s
now fallen quiet, there’s nothing.
