trout

Smoke of zebu

Desh Balasubramaniam

Grandfather turned the land
with a pair of humped bulls
Too young to lead the plough
I watched,
          spotted coat and short horns
Dung of bull, blood of his ancient breath,
a boy I watched
          fall of red stained sweat

Father turned the land
with a mechanical bull
Red tractor that ploughed the path
Too young to howl,
I watched
          oil lamps, ascend of tipper's axel
Smoke of zebu, blood of his young breath,
a boy an inch taller,
I watched
          rise of red filled sweat

Years in exile,
grandfather's ashes turned
to a palmyra palm
Father withdrawn
beneath beat of his aged heart
In an anonymous land
no longer a boy,
rather an unshaved man
Held to bones of his flesh
—I watch

men of immortal minds
masked in pureness of white
Turn the land,
—a liberator's salute
Plough the loyal breeze
erasing the fallen history
I watch,
ploughing through pages of a pen
As they turn my blood filled with corpses
          who once had a name…