MEMORIES

My heart is the store house of memories;

Memories of things dearest to me.

I kept them locked up in my heart;

Like a rich man keeps his precious possessions

In a locker;

I placed the heart in a cage of bones in my chest;

Nothing would destroy my beloved memories;

Neither the vagaries of weather;

Nor the thieves could lay their hands on them.



My mother always wore white clothes;

My breath still holds the scent of her;

The scent, a mixture of coconut oil,

Tulsi leaves and sandal wood paste.



I remember the women in the neighbourhood;

The one who prayed at the St.Thomas Church;

Who fed me her milk when my mother fell ill;

Oh, mother, it was not few drops of white fuild

That you flowed into the tiny lips of an infant,

But a stream of humanity.



The red flag fluttered dancing to the tune of the wind;

My father in the front, shouting slogans;

The stream marching behind, repeated the slogans;

Late in the evening, he broght us children

Small paper flags of red colour;

We marched in a row holding the little red flags,

I still keep the flag, red in colour fluttering in the wind.



I see a pair of dark wide eyes;

An oily face and thin lips;

The girl I danced with on the School Anniversary Day;

I still feel the warmth of her palm;

How can I not remember the girl of my first love?



My heart is the store house of memories;

Memories of things dearest to me.

The river swells during high tides;

The full moon turns the water into silver,

The lonely boatman sings a folk tune,

Breaking the night’s silence.



When the first rain embraces,

The palm trees look like

Peacocks dancing in ecstasy.

The cool breeze in dawn

Smells of sweet flowers;

The dew drops on the pasture,

Reflect the morning sun in thousands.



The ocean wave adorns the feet of the shore

With its silky silvery foam.

I stored in my heart, the mountains and

The green meadows.



The rocky hillock stands sentinel to the past.

The ancient rock cut temple,

Reminds of a bygone age.



You enlivened me with the touch of your finger

The cool of sandal paste you put on my forehead,

And the glitter of the starts in your eyes

That you stole from the heaven.

I stored everything,

Everything that is dear to me.



My heart is a storehouse of memories,

Memories of things dearest to me.







---Hansan T.K