Meghalaya

In the sacred forest of Mawphlang
a poet walks on fractured stones.
Heaps of tired leaves lie in situ
like sages in meditative sleep.
A little away the still waters
of lakes and ponds hide sighs of raindrops
like an old man’s memory of exploits
of a woman who vanished in the clouds.
The poet walks in excitement
like a caged bird returning to the trees.
She confides to the greens her thoughts
and gets in return a wealth of words.
The lakes start a hum in her mind,
her lines succumb to the song of birds
like fishes in the water current
swim to the boom at the waterfall’s end.
She wishes to learn the trade of the trees
with the rocks on the slopes of the hills.
The dust of the path under her feet
tells her the mystery of the ways.
And she says, “It’s not too soon nor too late
to save the sacred from your hand.
You, who have been long on this earth,
born in the cities of my birth,
read these words, but will you understand
the secret language of my verse?