Bring Back My Old Village Poem by Mohabeer Beeharry

I hate to think of the new look
That the villagehad taken.

I hate the curves and the bulges
Thefalse and painted shows that conceal many an unfeeling heart
AndI hate the new shining tarred woodland path
And theover civilized smirks and rush that glitter in the morning.

Where the well stood
Where children played and women chatted,
Where when I was young I playedmarbles with great pals
Only traces of dying grass are left.
The flowers have gone,
And the beloved hedges of perpetual hibiscus bloom.

I wonder at the stupid saying of that wise man
Who said that only man die.
The village has died too.
Decked with belts of new educated glitters,
The old pals had outgrown the village.

That was not the pond of my childhood,
Those were not the hills.
That was not the wood that I knew
With whom I shared the secrets of my heart
The pain and the distress of struggle.

Oh love who cares for my tears
Who cares for my simplicity
And my humbleness,
My love and dedication?
Genuine gems that I have guarded
From the ceaseless encroaches of new and dismantling monsters.

I had tears then, believe me
But they were quickly dried by the village freshness.
I have tears now
And they hang round my neck like weights of led.
Old age had come sooner