A farmer in Darkness

A nest of receding embers glow.

Wrapped in swathes of Shadow

He cradles the brick black hole.

Antimatter that crackles with Kathmandu,

A hiss of disembodied voices and distant news.

Hunched over and deeply entranced,

He is seemingly of the same substance

As the Red earth floor.

 

The red earth floor

That drinks daily of spilt chai,

Of the essence of life, to be revived

In the grey half light by calloused hands.

Each previous day’s remnants

Sealed in a new layer of rich clay soil.

 

The Rich clay soil

That is compounded by the passage of bare feet,

With each passing winter in wood-smoke steeped,

A mute testament to ingrained routine

Whose powerful gravity permeates dreams,

Wordlessly whispers when the darkness is strong,

Here you belong.   Here you belong.


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