Still Standing, Still Standing..

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The below is a first person account of a village tree who lost the friendship of a small boy to the big charm of the city.. 

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At day break, I wait for your shrill cries of laughter to pierce my ears..
I ponder while I drink the primary cocktail,
a gleaming red sun, the blue sky and the green field..

The train passes by mocking at me.. It’s whistle..
tells me a story of how you disappeared in the dark of the night..
I tell him, you and I are friends.. And that we are inseparable..

I decide to wait.. longing for a glimpse of
the farmer, the cart, the buffalo, a nursing mother,
the sounds of the mud vessels, the village gossip..

My afternoon in the tedium,
I stare at the vast earth in front of me..
An old man rests, but no tractors cough nearby..

I look down, the chalk from the hopscotch has washed away..
My feet that had endured the charcoal from the bonfire..
have grown weeds..

I stand still to hear the harvest celebrations.. I hear none,
then I know,
it is just not going to be the same without you..

In time my leaves will go away, I will wither and die,
But for now, they promise to come back next spring..
To be dressed up in green and to dance on my arms..

My brothers have all perished and caused a crying flood..
Just as they were,
I will be parted and uprooted from my earth..

The wind picks up my anxiety, her embrace is wild and warm..
As it runs through my branches, I feel strangely lovely..
‘C’est la vie my dear’, she says and smiles..

So, just for the rock record, let me tell you,
I love you and I miss you.
And wherever life has taken you, I only wish you the best..

And if you ever choose to come back,
and I am still standing,
I won’t spend your money and some, my friend, and there isn’t the worry of a rush hour..

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2010: For the next four decades, every minute, 31 Indians will arrive in an Indian city like Mumbai for the lure of its big city charm.

2012: According to data from the Housing Assistance Council (HAC), only about 21 percent of Americans live in rural areas.

Picture Credit: Timo from morning hour

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Poetry

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