What roads did you take to,
Those refuse to be retraced.
What paths did you flee in,
That no callbacks could regain.

These doors have creaked in wait and yean,
Those windows still hang by the view you once held.
That abandoned courtyard is overgrown with dark,
A roof has folded like an old woman’s wrinkles,
Who kept a vigil on her caving hearth,
And fought many winters valiant and lonely.

By the abandoned temple a deity still awaits,
Imploring for prayers that were paused in your flight.
By the temple courtyard, while chasing a kite,
The bakers boy was aimed and erased.
In this sanctuary are adorned now stains of red.
That no pour could wash, no wind could dust.

They claimed to have seized from him dirks of battle,
From pockets that held two toffees and a crumbled rupee note.
His body was claimed by a meadow afar,
By the alien fatigues as a trophy of war.

The deity’s Chinar was charred in rains,
When its old lady adorer was consigned in plains.

The temple doors cracked when the crowd had fled,
Scampering a massacre by the infringed square.
Where a hundred had fallen in pleas and wails,
The temple bells hung helpless awaiting a redeem.

The mirrors you discarded are broken and eerie,
Having lived our tales in horror and dread.
Look back and recall the lanes you dropped,
The temple is untended and the altar empty.
Deserted and neglected, that Deity has fled.