Grey Stones
I picked the stones grey,
Over eighty years aged.
When on them my ears lay,
Hear the melodies
Composed in yore days…
Music removes dust on my ancient mansion
With countless empty rooms,
All in antique fashion:
Miracles and mysteries
Hover over it always.
My rich grandmother
Ever spreads her wings,
And the rustics poor seek refuge under;
Homes father with cakes
And gather the kids with open beaks.
Behold the cat eyed maid,
Through my windows,
And the twigs of henna plant bloomed,
Fetching the water in pots made of clays
Along the grove of coconut trees.
The palm tree shed blood at noon,
When it was cut;
The cowherd did swoon
The ghost caught: events
So strange told and retold by servants.
Vrischika, the month of winds unceasing
Looses the knots of dream,
Brings the fragrance of jasmine buds blooming,
And the song of cuckoo does deem
Lulling my lover at moonlight dim.
…Grand house…deserted…vanished in the ashes grey
In a summer fire dance wild,
Leaving only the stones grey.
Sometimes, the heart loses its fire,
Then, no fear, stones play on the inner lyre.
poem by Fabiyas M V
Added by Poetry Lover
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