Consigned to a shallow river
are father's mortal remains,
mother keeps appearing often
in poems,
spread in front
a neem tree, its ancestral shade.

Time that has gone by
comes again,
like a metre, repeating itself.

We are not
what our forefathers were
and our parents,
yet again
we are what they were.

Our home is the one
made by our forefathers -
like water we flow
here and there
carving a path,
meandering, happy
coming down a slope,
from the rock
into a waterfall,
like an unexpected shower
in the evening
waking up the plants at night
becoming a wonder
in the morning glow,
do we arrive in the end
at the shores of our forefathers?