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I
On the brink of the dingy pond
Among the grove of bamboo
Stand our own drumstick trees
That have grown over the years
From infancy to maturity with risk
Braving the threat of animals,
The lethal eyes to scorn them rise
Two or three in number like
The green children of my father
Who moulds them daily.
II
Dreamy is my life under the trees
Often in the morning I go
And feel life in every branch
An odour in the barks where
Flock the hairy caterpillars
In plenty for leafy food and shelter
Sticking to the skins with faith
For a winged freedom, a destiny.
One by one as fingers in tender hand
Snapped the pods by father
Seeing them numb with mercy
At the hand defiling their beauty.
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