A dot on the map, an ocean in the heart
The grainy sand,
The salty sea.
The deep dark waters,
The distant church knoll,
The rapid, milk white springs,
Descending down the stony mountain
slopes,
The marshy swaps, exposing the roots of
mangroves from the ebbed tides.
The bridges flanked with water on either
side.
The rising sun amidst the ‘V’, of the hills,
The sinking sun,
On its way to the ocean floor.
The humid air ,
The summer breeze,
The old rustic houses left behind by the
Portuguese,
The open windows that open up to twine
of creepers with their blossom pink,
The open fields with golden stalks that
blow with the wind.
The ancient man selling fish on the
market floor,
The hippies who stroll to a reggae
rhythm .
The children jumping into the well with
their screams turning into echoes as they touch the waters with a splash.
With stories, faces, and realities,
With football fields, backwaters and
pastures clean.
When the day dims out,
And the night arrives.
When then summer breeze turns into a
winter morning bright,
I return home,
To a land that might not look as
promising,
But to a land encased in promising
antiquity,
A land frozen in times that were good.
A land that from space looks like a dot
on the map,
That from a descending plane,
Looks like a blob of green,
With the shimmering ocean
Besides it lay.
And now as I awaken from a slumber deep,
I realize that home is a kaleidoscope of
dreams.
Divya
Swamy
4th
April 2014
