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.