My Village

After three years, I visited my native place, countryside in ballia for three days. It is not a complete and real description of my village but, it is the testimony of my own experiences, a reflection of creation, in which only my beloved ones exist.

A small rush of people,

And silvery-reddish road,

Along with green, dry fields,

Awakening noise in an abode of poise.

Oh! This is a nostalgic sensation,

Yes, I am at my village station.

People, of small desires,

With childish innocence,

Who have only dream for tomorrow,

Shares their happiness and sorrow,

Whose nights are nights and days are days,

Yes, I am at my village.

The fields of maze and sunflower,

And a palm tree, watching as a guarding tower.

Goats, cows, sparrow and dogs,

And morning-jog with these folks.

Making me again, a child, of small age,

Yes, I am at my village.

I touched their bare feet,

Their eyes moistened.

They gave me the ripe mangoes,

Curd and most valuable, love.

I turned over the most lovable page,

No! I was out of my village.