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After a life

by NINGTHOUJAM JEETABARTA
 

The old bamboo fences and
corroded tin gate still keep
the small wilderness isolated
from the public sight.

The noise is foreign,
when the gate shrieked
but the land is mine.

Untamed weeds and grasses
had kept the land wealthy;
while creepers hang
from the wall to roof.

The door with scars
of termite holes
scolded me with contempt.

A sweet sympathy rose
from the clay ,when
lizards welcomed me
to an amorphous solitude.

But still the breeze
blew over the tulips,
with songs in Latin.

And, the broken bronze
still gives an amiable glint,
that offers the lesson
to dig again.

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