Hamadiya
Hamadiya, memory of pleasures. The forties
and love on the threshing floor. The chaff
pricks me even now, though my body
has washed many times since then and my clothes
have been changed again and again and the girl left for
the fifties and vanished inside the sixties and was lost forever
in the seventies—the chaff pricks me even now,
my throat is hoarse from so much shouting:
Come back one more time you
come back to me come back time come back loquat tree!
Love used to be the raw material of this poor country,
real life and dream joined to make the climate,
here joy and sorrow were still
weather conditions.
Dangers pounded all around like water-pumps
hidden in orchards, and the voice
that began as a cry for help
became a calming song.
We didn't know then that the debris of joy
is like the debris of any wreckage:
you have to clear it away to start over again.
Created by
guccipiggy
Last modified
2005-03-17 09:04 PM
