At years end I travel to that place beyond the gate
with its damp dark notion of a well
covered from innocent curiosity
The unused kitchen with bars
against, and of, the pale polished blue of day
The stiff upper of a cot that has served its time
and has seen the birth and rebirth
of seasons past
Is it that omnipresent fear of killing that lingers,
or is it of living?
Living, and creating life
which would raise itself from the depths of earthen world sunk by floods
from the depths of me, overflowed
This impact of a lineage, a kiln burning
The house of my amma’s patti
My kollu patti
The smell of boiling milk
stirred, skimmed, ladled
White skin on brown
