I mourn the fireflies
There used to be so many
My grandparents say
They would looks at the trees at night
Seeing more firefly lights than stars in the sky
“There” they point, at the ancient mango tree
“It pulsed with light, like a forest breathing”
I found one in my room
I took him outside
He lit up and flew, disoriented
Not another firefly in sight
Full moonlight
In lockdown
The temple doors shut
But oil lamps dancing
A Jackdaw sings
Too deep into the night
Crow, call again!
Hellfire on the streets
Far beyond what we can see
Over the smoke and moonlight
Past the Temple door
Crow, call again!
Under the shallow stream
On that vacant riverbed
I remember red seeds in the clay
Who spilled these rubies
Like the light on a starry night
Among the snails on the pebbles
Where snakes take to water
But fish do not swim
Upon that empty bank
My heart is trapped
Oh Village of my ancestors
Whose fables are still sung
When I am with my people
I am alone in elephant grass
Dusty breezes folding them
My family a rainstorm
But in the shaky soil
My heart is strung
In the shallow mirror of water
My reflection looks back
Though I live far away
In the rituals of this land
Ancestors are called
Around a bonfire in the night
I, a tree alone, in grassland
Over the mountains tall
Have heard a siren call
A faint yellow rose
Waving as I pass
In the early dawn
Don’t cry insects
If you meet
Snoring gray clouds
Deep in the air
Is the paintbrush
Of this slow river
mournful squall
sinking into the pebbles
on the riverbed
the moon
under flying dragonflies
even my footprints
are long gone
Water drops
on burning rocks
early morning
your fingerprints
painted with night rain
breadcrumbs
a koi’s gulps,
insomnia
under the stars,
fireflies arrive
even after storms
daybreak &
the butterfly’s bed
is my door handle
it must have come far
wading the rainfalls
of silence
Not hubris but lament
As an arrow is drawn
And a great stag is felled
My fingers working
Noting, as the image on the fold
Is written down
The magic in the eyes
Is the price
For a great creature
To be mine
smoke from the fire
only a drop of wine
rolls along
smoke from the fire
a mountain’s shadow
lies gladly broken
Rijul Ballal 