The mud house beckons me, spreads
its sill for me to sit. The steps crafted
by some tilted hands become the bamboo-growth,
become the sterile guava tree, horizon.
The house-owner trowels the yard’s soil,
opens a cage, releases his grey partridges,
and they rove, rotate and burrow deeper
and reveal the white ants. They end the insects.
The mud house emerges from a fresh bath.
It smells of Sun. I cannot recall my city dwelling
and its termite infested walls right now.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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