The colorful horizon, where the kites are born,
From the rib of the wind.
A glorious transformation, of the blues, to multi-color.
The sun too has its ways, of shining as brilliant as he can,
Like that story of the wind and the sun,
In war, battling to see who is more powerful
And yet no jacket comes off from the breasts
Of village women, whose portrayal
Of August, is looking after the ragamuffins
Who are on school holidays. And still this month, is like
One’s waist, somewhere in the middle block,
Spanning 31 days, and tells custodians of time
How beautiful the outdoors can be
When we are light-perfected meanderers
Of lazy time, when everything slows
Down except a child’s eyes, which are ever alert on the sky
Making the presence of the wind, tangible,
In that time-tradition, of floating a creature
That is known to flutter, to somersault, to dive
To runaway and to be lost, and still,
When you look at the face of a kite runner,
Every worry seems oblivious, like a lonely sunflower
On a neck-stalk, in fullest bloom,
More radiant than any sun.
In Asia, rice plants are everywhere you look,
Some are irrigated, while some are terraced,
Like the steps of Banaue, while others
Are found as upland aerobic rices.
It is a staple that feeds the mouth, and a merrymaker
As in Tapuy and Saki, which makes
Locals a lot inebriated and fondling
Everything with their pinwheeling eyes.
In this part of the world, paddy farmers,
Cultivate rice, especially the short-term varieties,
Cultivars that give yields in 2-3 months,
And this becomes, at the grassroots level,
The driving force of livelihoods, economies,
Cultures and lifestyles. How breathtaking,
To see a heading rice plant, the peduncle
Emerging with a pledge from Midas,
Where slender chalky grains dressed,
In a hull, can be seen dancing in the monsoon wind.
Here, lives simply revolve around rice.
Like how circumstance sculpts choice,
Choice engines fate, and fate,
Determines whether it will be deluging rice
As you walk past, hand-in hand, through the sprinkled grains
Knowing the gods have given their blessings,
And the moon is sweeter than honey,
To plow – and plow – the waiting field,
Until one day, a little shoot can be seen emerging,
Bearing the vigor, of a sprouting dream.