Where poppies blow…

Another time, another day,

I weep and wail

in melancholic sway.

I watch him in stealth,

Like a bride in a veil,

As he Gallops away

With reins of disdain.

Down theĀ  fields,

Where poppies blow,

He reined his steed,

In search of his foe.

Down the fields

where poppies blow,

He galloped away

To slay his foe.

Advertisements

The “Not-so-solitary” Reaper

She woke up when the frail rays of the rising sun reflected off of her little mirror hanging loosely from an old rusted nail hammered in on the west corner of her little mud-walled-palm-leaf hut. The mirror was cracked diagonally across and the only use it actually had in all those years was signify the break of dawn.

She tied her long black hair in a loose up-do, picked up a mud pot and marched briskly to the little stone-walled well a few yards away. She broke a little neem twig from the adjacent tree and started chewing it, while she hauled water from the well, filled her mud pot with it,had a few gulps of the same water and marched steadfastly back to her hut, as if she was running late.

she walked out almost in a jiffy holding a sharp sickle in one hand and the mud pot in the other and started treading towards the highland in the middle of the hills, which was a few miles away., her hair was soon loose and the long black hair was swinging side to side as she walked, she did not stop to tie it back up.

She could see someone sitting and writing something on the other side of the highland, which made her curious. she did not want to attract attention, So she did not go and talk to him, but being the naive person she is, she started singing in her native tongue, an unfamiliar folklore of a solitary vagabond, who was looking for love and was lost in the highlands, and how she rescued him from his loneliness by singing an unfamiliar folklore in her native tongue, in a strange melancholic strain