A after "the Bread of Childhood by Ihor Pavlyu" Guardian
Gone are those days of porridge and cake
delicacy and taste by the blessed hands of grandma
a culinary taste and gift which we the inmates
can never forget even today.
Even today, my embroidered memories swaying
under the agelong tamarind tree and urchins picking
playing - a game and past time our village records;
my mood sings along brook cool passing ;
TIME does not fly without imprint of those days,
a feel or loss of precious something is cranky
in my blood, my mind and mood, but that crankiness
is consolidated into solid deepening cry.
Peacock feather in between my books,
parrots chirping a rarity of sight and voice
I see in my eyes, my past days, my present
immediacy veering around.
something is wanting, something is wanting
not a waste, but a must to rebuild our past.
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