By
Sherin Mary Zacharia
Much to recollect
On those shapes
The shapes of shadows
The shadow-puzzle thrown by leaves
The green leaves of the mango tree
The mango tree in the garden
The garden in front of the house
The house was old, many lives it seen,
many tales it has to tell.
They would sit in the spaces restricted
Near the wooden stairs,
Near the grinding stone,
Near the stacked fire wood;
Those corners where sunlight retreated early
Where the rustle of mango leaves forgot to reach.
No longer their stories travel
Not anymore, from lips to ears
No more is there anyone, to tell their tales.
The house, desolate.
Its corners where secrets whispered
Now swept with dust, crumbled memories
By the cold winds.
The cold yesterdays, like fallen leaves
Slowly to be moved aside
Into secluded corners
Of the mind, left to be forgotten.
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