GRAVEYARD
Age old classic wall
encloses this ultra silent
chunk of land, where
dead lie. Far away from city.
Tiny grasses live here. Some
grow to moderate heights,
balancing a flower or two
over their pointed heads.
Rugged, coarse road from
main gate after walking a
measurable distance turns left.
Way to my home.
In this section of yard
are four dwellings, placed
quite separate from one other.
No green life could stick here.
Tough rocks, plain desert like
terrain. Dull. Here I dwell.
In my small simple grave.
My place of peace.
My other three companions.
My graveyard neighbors. Don't
talk much. I spend most of
the time in silence.
Darkness is in abundance. Roaring
of winds reaches like a mild
music. When clouds pour,
rain tries to trickle down.
But I am safe. Often I miss
presence of one or two books.
Peace demands sacrifice.
I wish death allowed me to write.
I would have tried to
create a poetry about
squirrels chatting joyfully
near my neighbor's grave stone.
About elliptical lake, resting
few feet beyond our secluded tract.
Lots of bird visitors it has.
They converse intensely.
About soils that have provided
roofs for my weird soul. But I can't.
Bells of cycles shrill as they pass
graveyard to the city lanes.
City is new. Brimming with
novelty. Graveyard holds everything
old. Age old classic wall.
Age old smooth, cracked rocks.
Little blooms try to break the
monotony. As they have been
doing since times.
Extremely old.
© Nivedita