The city barely remembers
When they came last;
Their old tree dwellings
Have given way to tall stone buildings.
Little boys thought the trees would stay;
But one day steel cranes moved in, rooting them out.
Kenju will never get to see
Fireflies turn up and shine on a sweet
Smelling blossom or declare the gorgeousness
Of ripening breadfruit.
Evenings, the young trees at the yard may be dark;
Yet he need not wish
Nor pray that fireflies come back.
The storybooks carry them glowing
In the cardboard gardens and forests,
Lighting the night
Of sterile dust and air.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you too have a poem you’d like to submit, do mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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