I'm telling you

amidst the whispering cropped-headed paddy field,

in the lore of these reeds,

in the orchestra of these auburn after-harvest field

by the seedlings that crack this soil-- 

I am their spokesperson.

Those who (habitually) trespass this squarish land,

taking a diagonal turn towards its right,

rhythmically toppling over its ridges

and then bypassing the purple blossoms

of the bean trellis—I speak their mind.

I stand for this two-crop yielding soil,

as it sucks as much of wintry mist as it can.

I shout out too for the distant line of jet-black ants

crawling through the limestone rings of shuparigach.

See this dried up creek? I ventriloquise its wish,

despair at the way it marvels at being

submerged or drowned, and then

tided away in muddy monsoon rain.

The sagging wind of this village,

the countless village chimneys,

and the newby calf- haplessly mooing

for its mom's smell beckon them to come.

Biroho throbbing in maya nod at them to come

while musing, "whatever the ebb exposes,

who wouldn't receive them?"

The twister looming in a mother's bosom

wrapped in maya's abundant petals,

allow them to come.

The dervish air of this village

swirls around beckoning them,

muttering, "how I wish nobody ever knew

how biroho thrashes all things inside-out."

Whatever is unpresent, whatever wilts in the abyss

remains here in the seam line of unpresence—

the aura of twisty turvy air implores, "so let's whirl,

let's whirl in maya."

Bipasha Haque is a diaspora writer with particular interest in life-the way it is. By profession she is a university teacher.