The waters are grey now;
They no longer reflect,
The coconut palms,that
Fringed the island
Like a crown of thorns.

The padipera, a temple door
Issues a stern warning.
Unswept leaves carpet the pathway.
And the house waits; ancient religion,
Yearning to be rediscovered.

Inside dust motes dance in sunbeams,
Delighted with the invitation.
Long forgotten objects catch the eye.
And, suddenly memories are assassins,
Choking your breath.

Once, the moist air carried laughter,
The golden tinkle of of tiny voices.
Cooing doves and temple bells,
A happy blend of harvest noises.
With Onam always but a heart beat ahead.

The trees are barren now;
The stand helpless; mute
Witnesses to the ravages of change.
And each invasion has scarred the soul
Like red flags on scorched fields.