Grandma and Grandpa of Cinematic Creators

Only one room of the home of thatched roofing Night nest my childhood grew up On the reed mat, at the cow dung floor We slept in a line warmly in whole room With the portion of my dinner, given by my mother In the evening I came, Grandma’s home ever Grandma, Grandpa, seldom with my brother Nights I spent was a book grim brother Close to the rice pot and two hot curries Sat for the dinner eagerly by the light of cruet Hungry amber color painted night touched faces Taste of dinner though simply and smell haunt Passed happy and sad days, rich and poor days Stamped mixed memories in countless nights After the dinner and betel desert of delights Mats were laid, the door was ajar till sleeps Of Kings, princes and heavens the story long Longed to hear until grandma wants to sleep Visualized images and in horrible forests In Grandpa’s narratives, I wondered as a cloud Once he tells and ends about a demon’s tale Afraid my feet disinclined of going to pee Night and dark when light and door were closed A visual screen through roof’s holes that story plays Grandma, Grandpa both are my cinematic creators Unwritten epics of my big world narrators Imaginary mind and poetic soul me granters Your place far away and become exiled traitor