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)
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