The Earthen Stove
In one corner of the courtyardstands an earthen stove.
There is no fire in it now,
only ashes
and the dew of night.
Come,
stand here
in this courtyard
for a while.
People
live in this house.
Sickly people,
people who live
from one day’s wages
to the next day’s meal.
Their joys and sorrows,
their aches and pains.
In this house
children cry,
grown-ups quarrel.
And when night falls,
everyone dreams.
Beside the cold stove
lies
a shaggy dog.
You have seen the courtyard,
you have heard the people speak.
If you do not wish
to poke your head into the house,
then don’t.
Now look
at that tree
by the roadside.
A dhundhul vine
has climbed
all along its trunk.
Its flowers
are yellow
and very bright.
The flowers are all
flowers,
just as flowers should be.
But they
are not dreams.
Right beside the tree
is the household’s ash heap.
There, two crows
are tugging at
a dead rat.
And just as I am saying this,
there he is,
the morning milkman,
arriving too,
with the clatter
of his bicycle.
Poetry by sinha murari
Written on 2026-10-06 at 10:04
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