Village

We walk miles of unpaved mud streets

 of an unknown local village

clustered around tree.

 

Its late afternoon,

We ask for a cup of tea in

the hut. The

summer wind moans through its chinks

 in the walls.

 

Its roof thatched with straw

And its walls plastered with muds,

Its dusk now.

The light tin can fill with

kerosene sits on the window sill.

A gentle wind stirs its orange flame.

 

I sip a glass of steaming milk tea

 smelling of cinnamon and clover

its thin mist cloud over my new spectacles

 

An old hunchback lady with a turban, sits by the stove

As The evening meal is cooking

on aluminum dish over wood fire.

a small chimney puffs out bits of dark smoke

 from the corner of the hut.

Her aging body with years of hard work

can be seen on the folds of her skin

She has hunchback and her stick walks with a stick

 

The evening settles down with

lights from firefly and the sound

of crickets in the woods…

and the smell of the evening meal

fills the hut.