Pitch black walls, orange tinged skies
green blades of grass, with dew atop
crickets chirping across the narrow stream
flock of birds, sitting on hut’s tin shade

Dawn breaks in valley, milkman knocks
white milk, with a stroke of sun’s part
girls sell loaves and jams from door to door
boys feed cattle’s, with grass and soybean meal

Shepherd’s play flute, women flock by
easterly wind blows, taking pollen from flower to flower
I peep from the crack of the broken glass
smoking my wooden pipe, smiling along
seeing children of forest, singing and rhyming
I pray, the men with axes don’t come by

                                                                     ~ Siddharth Ojha

                                                                       Dehradun, India