When looked up from here the sky appears a tainted grey,
why do people dry their clothes on the frame of vision
where a bird visits, a dragonfly leaves tracing paper dreams?
As a girl I asked several times why I was born where I was born
in the dust, noise and grime. Rivers soaked through cheap posters,
in chants of daily prayers, in brass pots kept as talisman;
over the years I learnt to grow ferns that carry mountain breeze
and every cloud bore rain as they passed over my house.