A Living Fruit, Seeking Roots.


Walked on the roads of old.

Looked upon the face of four generations;

Filmy right eye stares through blankly . . . cold.

The left begs memory to aid recognition.

Earthen homes with family shrines.

Resting residents under the shadows of mango trees, unwind.

Burning firewood at sunset, evokes nostalgia’s spirit.

Evening meals boil in charcoal-plated pots

finding balance on three stones flirting with fire.

Very dark nights bring out every star’s light.

The fragrance of dawn adorns the poetry of waking up.

The ground is red. The sky seems nearer.

Dense highlands rise and fall, rolling into the heavens.

Long and winding asphalt paths snake through the forest’s outskirts.

Land of my ancestors, upon which they worked and walked;

Through life ephemeral, into life eternal.


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