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Poem

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

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