The Village

at the footsteps of the lonely hills,
under the clear skies,
thatched roofs sit astare,
mud walls,
artistic finishes of ore and ash,
a support they offer,
smoke,
rising over the chimney-less,
rooftops,
a boiling pot all know,
dusty pathways,
edges leading to shrub gates,
open neighbourhoods,
barefoot women,
children in tatters,
sacks on their backs,
to the market,
steps they take,
crows,
cries,
the children,
the animals,
no barks,
more mowws!
the rising sun,
no running water,
electricity a word that comes,
with the town people,
peace,
harmony,
brotherhood,
another day,
in the not so silent,
village...