I recall the paths, Of childhood; of distant mood, That took me to the river. The red soil that revived into air, as hooves of bulls pressed onto them. And the rhythmic wheel of cart oiled by grease patiently made screeching sound. Mixed with these sounds were the calls of birds, that gently cut through even the afternoon forests, and on either side of this road which was hunched in the middle , were bamboos and shrubs that grew not too long;in their pomp. nor too short , lest be useless. but just tall enough to cover the soil, and protect her rich freshness from the father. The rays of Father made mosaics on the paths, ever chanting sketches of times and times , In the morning they were slanting and boisterous, Sketches of kids . afternoon; sturdy and arid . sketches of middle-aged men; with burdens on their shoulder, In evening, the fading mosaics were silent but wise. I took the shadow and i took the peeping rays to, on my face ,my laps, my back,my hands. we played all the time . Sometimes the rifest berry shrub, If It was a May afternoon ,was like black shining pearl , the dance of black pearls , abundant, sweet with red juice inside , I recall all that ,as if it happens before me, right now. O the sweet childhood and its reckless glories, the dreams of impossibilities and the romance with skies the sweet sweet paths that lead to river. And If if it be Monsoons , It would all greens, The soil will be less gay , and more gravity bound . The hunch ,the protective shrubs and their leave's blanket fatter now ,to play with mother rains ,than the rays . The clouds , the smell , the dark chocolaty muddy ponds, and how many lazy afternoon spent

Paths to the river

I recall the paths,
Of childhood; of distant mood,

That took me to the river.
 The red soil that revived into air,
 as hoofs of bulls pressed onto them.
And the rhythmic wheel of cart
 oiled by grease
patiently made screeching sound.

 Mixed with these sounds
 were the calls of birds,
 that gently cut through
even the afternoon forests,
and on either side of this road
which was hunched in the middle ,
were bamboos and shrubs
 that grew not too long
;in their pomp. nor too short ,

 lest be useless.
 but just tall enough to cover the soil,
 and protect her rich freshness from the father.
 The rays of Father made mosaics on the paths,
 ever chanting sketches of times and times ,
In the morning they were slanting and boisterous,
 Sketches of kids .
 afternoon; sturdy and arid .

sketches of middle-aged men;
with burdens on their shoulder,

 In evening, the fading mosaics
were silent but wise.
 I took the shadow
and i took the peeping rays to,
on my face ,my laps, my back,my hands.
we played all the time .

 Sometimes the rifest berry shrub,
If It was a May afternoon ,
was like black shining pearl ,
 the dance of black pearls ,
 abundant, sweet with red juice inside ,
 I recall all that ,
as if it happens before me, right now.

O the sweet childhood
 and its reckless glories,
 the dreams of impossibilities
 and the romance with skies
the sweet sweet paths that lead to river

. And If if it be Monsoons
, It would all be green,
The soil will be less gay ,
and more gravity bound .

The hunch ,the protective shrubs
and their leave's blanket fatter now ,
to play with mother rains ,not just the rays . T
he clouds , the smell ,
the dark chocolaty muddy ponds,
and how many lazy afternoon spent