Time in a Flame
In the Pabbi Hills,
A couple of decades ago,
A small village called Mayyrr glowed
In the tender night of spring.
From every home, tiny flames flickered,
Like a swarm of fireflies—
Some crowning the upper slopes,
Some resting in the valley below.
The night was alive with gentle chatter,
Elders sharing tales and quiet laughter,
Warmth flowing beside their brass lanterns,
Stories unfolding, softly, like smoke in the air.
Lanterns poured love through their golden flame,
Wicks drawing oil from the reservoir,
As time, silently, drew life from the old folk—
Yet left their warmth, wisdom, and light
Lingering across the hills,
A memory that glows forever.
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