Sunday Poem

The Taste of Earth

I am the desert dreaming of oases.
A dream of those who condemn
my scorching sands.

When the forests bloom
and rain arrives on the green earth,
when snow falls in the mountains,
I remain the burning earth.

I am the fever of the sun
not cooled by moonlight.
Remembering the rain,
I become the butcher's laughter.

I too love flowers
but not the rain.
Its chill is a curse;
it'll put out my fire.

Those who have travelled
from the Saraha to the sea
know the taste of my heat.

by A. Ayyappananandan
translation: Sri Koyamparambath Satchi