The land was fertile:
To breed poets,
And musicians,
Storytellers,
Many soothsayers,
Even sorcerers.
To make all of these
You need poverty;
You need beauty;
Superstitions,
Sensetive feelings,
High-run emotions,
Profound wishes,
Deep traditions.
For long stories
You would need rebels,
Even some revolts,
Very high mountains,
Very dense forests,
Movement of people;
Of different races,
Varied origins,
And varied cultures,
Reasons for movement,
Of many tribes;
Settled or moving.
There were many “would’s”
Some of them shallow,
Some were profound.
Roots of some of them
Had been lost in myths
And the old epics
Of our people.
They all existed
In every village
And every corner
Within my own reach;
Or little farther
Or a bit before
I came to this world.
A trace of verse
Ran in my clan
For few decades;
Not to my father,
Not to his father,
But, to his father.
Even a thick book
Of poetry
Had been ascribed
To that lonely man
With only one eye
And only one child
And without much care
For the treasures
Of fleeting world.
His main treasure
Was his biting words;
Poisonous, indeed,
That scared people
In the area
Of sword of his pen.
I had seen nothing
Of any writing
Of prose or verse
Coming from him.
Neither I saw him;
Though; he was teacher
Of my grand dad’s
And also his son’s
One of them my dad.
