Journey of Words

At home the words echo their own rhythm.
Finely domesticated in their habit, the words
keep humming a tune in the kitchen,
verandah, portico and courtyard.
Keep dancing, romping and sporting.
Keep wandering from one heart
to another.
At home much akin to my family
there dwells a family of words.

On the road the words have different rhythm.
Words walk briskly through
the jungle of din.
They spiral round the
vines of the crowd.
Not taking rest a bit
flow with the flow of the road.
Singing a song of consciousness
they reach eternity.

Crops of words undulate gracefully at school.
Words splash a handful of light
to the children,
bathe them with a warmth
of consciousness
and send back home.

In the open fields of
this great house, the earth,
in the fields, in the moors of the hills,
in the sand beds of the river,
in the night that comes
wearing a tika of the moon,
in the sky with tangled clouds,
there lies a magic palace of words,
where the youths follow
the footsteps of the words,
the middle-aged hold
the fingers of the words, and
the old bask in the warmth of the words.

Picking up the words
thickly bloomed in the garden,
I have set out to reach that
distant village of the words.
The moment I reach any town,
a new window of the words open,
a new wind of the words blow and
a new lock of the words' hair open.

Wherever I reach, begins a new
settlement of the words.
Wherever I am, opens
a new door of the words.