Burked Ballads

Do you not remember me at all?
I am the hill that never sleeps,
the tree that lies by the street
listless, longing to breathe;
the vine that tangles across
your fence, waiting on death's
trail of stealthy footsteps.

Do you not remember me at all?
I am the highland that you veiled
in a miasma of fumes when you built
yet another automobile, cramming
roads so that you could cut deeper
into me until i sprawled cold
and stark naked by the roadside.

I remember how chickweeds bloomed
on my lush green slopes and when
a light breeze rolled down on me,
they playfully danced to a song
i often heard the fishermen hum
before they sprawled their black
fish nets into the river.

Do you not remember me at all?
There were times when you buried me
with mounds of sand when women
chose to buy happiness with cameos
and satiny dresses and so you built
that tall concrete haven for them,
while i lay buried awake under
glittering mosaic floors.

I remember how once white feathered
swans swirled and flapped their wings
in my green watered body; children, they
floated paper boats and watched them
sail until beads of rain doused them in.

Today, you walk through broken down
villages and pink fleshed terrains,
wishing for rain to wash away your sins,
your regrets and dark allied secrets
but all that remains is the tiny voice
in your head singing ballads of a magical
land lost in the gloom of your shadows.

*First Published in Pratilipi, November 2011.