On the eastern
Edge of western
Ghats.
Amidst the bustle
Of tall trees and
Green grass.
Beside a lake or
A small pond.
We shall build
A hut,
You and I.
When the
Herdsmen come
Playing flutes
And the hornbills
Hoot to the
Footsteps of the
Sheep.
Picking them
Nuts and fruits,
We shall spend
Our days,
You and I.
The running water
Of the river is
Sweet they say.
Tubers and roots
In the wild are
No less than
A feast they say.
So we shall
Befriend a beast.
Nurse something
Feeble and weak.
And confining all
Our secrets to
The whispers of
The trees..
We shall become,
Those nameless
Lovers in folklore,
You and I.