Around the graveled path <br />Running through the criss-cross streets <br />And lanky alleys <br />Networking the cities Zamun and Lascovac <br />History mushrooms new stories <br />Into the veins of Gypsy air. <br /> <br />A gypsy boy shakes hand <br />From the horde of Roma. <br /> <br />Silent they stand <br />Glaring at the stream of history <br />That runs millennium back <br />As the group of Indian delegation <br />Looms around. <br /> <br />Another history is shaped <br />Near the confluence of Danube and Sava <br />As the Romas hug their brethren <br />From the land of their ancestors. <br /> <br />And then the long course of events. <br />The webbed grottoes of memory <br />Take short snippets <br />Of the forlorn glimpses, <br />Persian, Ottoman, Arabian, Balkan ……. <br />And entwine a rosary of blood-bubbles. <br /> <br />The Bamti, Beldari, Dom, <br />Garodi, Gasai, Gulgulia, <br />Kandzari, Kolhati, Ladi, <br />Malari, Mianuali, Lahari <br />Nati, Odki, Phendari, <br />Sasi, Sikalgari, Banjara, <br />And Lamani, Sharai, Luri, <br />All beads of the same kaleidoscope <br />Shimmer in Europe <br />But to be clouded. <br /> <br />At dusk <br />When the darkness shakes hands <br />With the Sun, <br />And the shadows <br />Of the shanties and trees <br />Start flickering before evaporation, <br />A diffident flash of kerosene lamp <br />And the overloaded <br />Single phase of electricity <br />Culvert the new dreams <br />Into the drain of indignity. <br /> <br />The hesitant steps <br />Row against the porch <br />Of the city gaff <br />To greet the men <br />From the country of their origin. <br />A carnival to reproduce <br />The marks of old glories <br />They still cherish <br />Since they got strayed from India. <br /> <br />The early puffs of smoke <br />In the morning <br />Spring a new life <br />Into the slouched bellies <br />And pump in raw calories <br />In the feeble frames. <br /> <br />Should I stand for a while <br />To sense the perfume of the city <br />That the air jabbles against my nose, <br />And the velour of its sons <br />Which hasn’t gone in vain, <br />And craft the art of gypsy girls <br />Into the words curvaceous <br />To make an account?<br /><br />Harish k. Thakur<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-webbed-grottoes/
