A river flows westward taking with it the tidings of the
past and present, and the memories of those who left for more promising places
Children still gather on its northern bank to play war-games
with paper ships and hand cannons
On the other side, a meadow hides the cottage of the old
river guard when young blackbucks appear from nowhere to graze
When the Morning greets the waking birdie the two boats lose
their anchors and drift westward
Old guardians grow older by the day, their lazy branches soaking in the cold water
The Old Banyan’s beard partially hides his faceless trunk that
juts skyward like a tower from the past
As the breeze blows harder and rushes the river along, the
Old Banyan grows older
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