I pick the grey stones,
Aged over eighty years.
As I lay my ears on them,
I hear the melodies
Of the bygones.
The stones play on my old mansion,
With countless empty rooms,
All in antique fashion ;
Miracles and mysteries
Always hover over it.
My rich grandmother
Always spreads her wings,
And the poor rustics seek refuge under.
Father homes with sweets,
And the kids gather with their open beaks.
I see a cat eyed maid,
Through my window
And the twigs of bloomed henna plant,
Fetching water in a clay pot,
Along the grove of coconut trees.
The palm tree shed blood at noon,
When it was cut;
Being caught by the ghost,
A cowherd swooned: the servants
Tell and retell the events, so strange.
Vrischika*, the month of unceasing winds,
Looses the knots of my dream, and
Brings the fragrance of jasmine buds bloom.
The song of cuckoo lulls
My lover in the moonlight.
Grand deserted house had vanished in grey ashes
In a wild dance of the summer fire,
Leaving only the grey stones.
Sometimes, my heart loses its fire,
Then, no fear,the stones play on my inner lyre.
*Vrschika is a Malayalam month with full of unceasing winds in some parts of Kerala,India.
FABIYAS M V