An archaeological thrill!
It is not Samson’s secret of strength,
It is neither Delaliha’s betrayal,
It is my living in the hundred year old
building, a luminous addiction grown
into a deep-rooted passion.
Every plank and panel ,
aach mud lump and sand dune
Is a vital resonance of the
Deep rooted past, with ancient history
revitalising .I smell its aura permeating.
Whetted by a saying strengthened
by generations of dwellers ,there
Is a possible treasure buried in the garden,
A copper pot of coins,
My angst of desire propels me
to dig , dig , delve in the garden,
round stones, roots, mud slumps,
dried leaves, anthills, molten sheets,
ribbons, broken combs,
I imagine dead bones of new born
Of miscarriage s,
I foray into my grand mother’s
Story times with sad details,
It is a thrill of a thread unbroken
A treasure I see while wiping sweat.
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