In my new house,
in the remote village,
I think of spending my time,
a very different place
a different way of life,
I am unused to it
and I think of spending my time.

No screech of television channels,
no smoldering smoke of coffee shops,
Any flash bulb of huge land marks,
to illuminate my existence.
I think of spending my time.

In the overlapping mist of morning,
I sip a hot tea reading daily events
Of newspaper,
I do little house hold works
and have walk here and there.
When evening draws near,
I put my chair in portico,
and read few pages of poems
of bygone great.
But I miss something.

It is then I look out and see
sudden rustling of trees,
a few fluttering birds take rest
after a days duty,
and soft breeze enters through
the wall of my house,
I feel a touch of life,
my worries seem to have suspended a while,
when western sky draws the curtain
for the meaningful day
after a days play.