No sooner the Milky Way was drowned in the floods of morning light,
Gulmohar made its first appearance and announced the new season-

Some memories from telescopic distances came down, floating
Along my surging blood streams.

This language, this country, this time, how can I say
They are mine? They, were not of my choice nor did
Any one take my consent for it. I am their prisoner, how many tongues,
How many times, and how many countries I came treading to this
Tiny village, which today claims me, I don’t know, nor do you.

But this day whispers in my ear, once upon a time,
My country was a flower and I was a drop of child-honey breathing in it.
Sometimes on my blood shores appear, my Palaeolithic implements,
Sometimes, come down washed by floods
The ancient Sumerians and Mohenjodaros.

I wonder in what jungles I roamed, sleeping secretly
In the wombs of tigers and lions, which beautiful gazelle
Grazed me on some pasturelands to comfort its hungry flesh and blood?
To feel the experience of what forest I became a tree,
And grew branches on my body feeling the
Void with my leafy fingers;

In the primeval consciousness of which ocean
Floated pulsating like a light corpuscle with out either limbs,
Or sensory organs.
In the cradle of which moment, I was rocked in the
Indefinable experience of oneness in time,
With suns and moons hanging like toys in time.

All my memories have come, along the floods
Of my blood today, when Gulmohar announced the new season,
The season, which sings to the eternity of creation.
In my village today, only four know me,
The rickety bridge, the village stream the old temple
And the whimpering tank bund.
- Seshendra Sharma