The Wooden Floor and the Wet Summer Night

The wooden floor creaked as I lay on it. My eyes narrowed, slowly, into slits As I stared at the half-drawn blinds, As my limbs, lazily Throbbed with dull persistency After the long, Enervating bus journey. Not much had changed over the years. The same wooden houses and paddy fields; Farmers toiling, indefatigably. Children playing with perpetual felicity. The village still was as I had known Six years ago. The sweet smell of the incense sticks From the tiny shrine In the damp alcove Filled my little room . Mingled ,gently with the wooden floor. Not much had changed over the years. The same wooden houses and paddy fields; Farmers toiling, indefatigably. Children playing with perpetual felicity. The village still was as I had known Six years ago. Like every night, the flautist did come. Beside the same gnarled tree, he seated himself. Under the lunar spotlight, he rose Far beyond the temporal world. The ineffable melody and its ungodly pulchritude In esoteric harmony with the quietude Accompanied the miners In their lonesome journey Back home. Not much had changed over the years. The village still was as I had known Six years ago. - Amy Angom (16)