A Visit To The Deserted House
Ah! The ties of the golden age have been razed,
Removed by the sharp double edged razor of time,
The whole period swings before my invisible eyes,
The memories spring up like impatient mushrooms,
Out of the heap of memories: undisturbed scrap.
I see the faint, faded image of my mother sitting,
Exhausted on the sill of the door, engrossed,
Absorbed in profound thoughts devising the device,
To encounter the reserved worries of tomorrow;
I see my father sitting on the cot, drowsing leaning,
Against the wall in the sweet sunshine of winter,
And sometime an abrupt snort jerks, awakes him.
I behold my uncle in one corner weaving baskets,
With the mulberry wet flexible sticks bending them,
And twisting, recollecting the strength of all muscles.
I see a few hens clucking in the mud-plastered yard,
Tempting, attracting the chicks to the scattered crumbs,
The baby goats dozing, nodding sluggishly in the sun,
The young fluffy soft dog woofing, growling, yapping,
At each extraneous and unconcerned disturbance.
I hear the chorus of muffled, miscellaneous sounds,
Of cattle while they were led to the green meadows,
And they passed through the street in unending train.
Who cast an evil wicked eye upon the pastoral land?
That pleasures and sweet joys are jailed, imprisoned,
Behind the bars of avarice, cupidity, self-indulgence,
And desertedness hums over the bloated corpse of life.