Little houses, two, three stories, some tall,
Leaking out light through little bullet holes.
Glowing with dark sinister light from selfish motives,
For a wayfarer to stumble and bleed.
The wind rustles, making a branch knock out,
Their spirits at midnight, during public blackouts…
One big hut, in the middle of winds and sands,
Water, borne from that dry well miles away,
Lies abundantly in a little pot infront.
The vast mud porch stands starkly illuminated,
In the haunting night, by a dirty little earthen lamp.
A wanderer lost in the desert finds a world in it.
Though alien in tongue, and money,
Dirty the oil lamp, but the effort never goes amiss.
Judging by the shadows, thrown on the old, painted wall,
A friendship weaves in a new bond,
And the light of the lamp resurrects a dead emotion.
Reminding and warming.
Symmetry lies in the human heart.