I have witnessed
three generations
sweating under the razing sun
making circles of fire
and baking life.
My grandmother made it
in the mid-noon, my
mother preferred afternoon
and I saw my sister before noon
shaping, circling, baking sun-balls.
Dung’s life is their life:
both are baked along
one sweats, the other dries
in the scorching heat both cry.
Life turns into heaps
of round shaped mirrors.
Looking into them
grand ma preened and enjoyed,
mother fumed and tried,
sister avoided and cried.
(From my collection of poems entitled The First Step)
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