In the Hills of Seven Huts

In the hills of seven huts, Where war is either a place or surname, And dreams are translated into numbers, And a number became a gambler's sad song, I found God breathing through the pine trees. Orchards in the hills shivered in winter's palms, Golden oranges plucked for city bazaars, A young leaf wanted to go along, Discontented orange tree held it back. A fleeting rainbow across Noh-ka-Likai, A glimpse of her precious final steps, Before she became a waterfall. Twangs of hammer on hot iron, A dagger hissed in a bucket of water, Mylliem's blacksmiths keep tradition throbbing. Mylliem's giant boulders, Memoirs of the great earthquake, 'We were cast out recklessly', Says a mossy stone. Sunday morning in the church, A pair of long legs walked past a pew, A clergyman sighed in agony. Christmas in Shillong, Roast turkey on the table, Rush of stampeding shoppers, Merchants carol their way to the bank. A dog swallowing the moon, Beating of empty tins, chasing the dog away, I became a lunar-eclipse drummer in Shillong's hills. I went down on my knees, And asked God for my biblical rib, And I found her snoring gently beside me, In the hills of seven huts.