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About This Poem
A Wreath on the Tiles Factory
Lips of a chimney
always puff
gray smoke out.
Lorries, loaded with tiles,
always rush out.
Rupees always heap up
in a wooden drawer.
Red tiled roofs
always give them refuge.
Those ‘always’ remains
in the fossils now.
Weeds lock the compound.
Rust hugs the bolts.
Experience dies in arms.
Coolies teach their children
how to hush the hunger.
Concrete roofs
proudly put wreaths
on their predecessors.
Now a coolie’s lips puff
curls of worries out
before the closed gate.
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