A Keepsake

Srishti Mudaliar

The force of the air is sweeping me away,
From my land, it’s environs, under siege of these fences,
Then why the same air does bring to sway,
The sweet smell of the soil, over my senses?

The memories are all that would be accompanying me,
As I move, though much more was that I hoarded,
Of the same land that supported me, while I ran upon the monsoon spree,
And a blur memo that the same gave my survival all that it needed.

My land is not so arid, but is trying to conceal the pain,
The pain, similar to that in my heart,
It needs me, but makes no effort vain,
To stop me, as I proceed to part.

This mighty land has got my words and acts,
The stupendous figures that I carved on the rocks of it,
That would kindle into its heart, the percept of those beautiful feuds and pacts,
That’s why it smartly scuttles begging for time, more a bit.

The “memories” I carry would vanish as soon,
As I get lost into another element,
But, this coarse land doesn’t whither to place, upon me its dusty boon,
Nor does this air agree to get stacked into my perpetual garment.

A delicate urge I play on my fiddle,
Le’mme scrape a bit out of this hardened landscape,
Gi’mme a club or a dagger li’l,
Let me dig out an eternal lump, a “keepsake”.