Thorn forests left open 

Over the hot stretch of land

Highly tall with outrighted hands   

There is no shade under the palm trees

Laid with cement walls 

Broken over the sides

Channel having small squirms of water  

Runs quietly as a tiptoed girl

Dried dung smells over the breeze

Evening plays in the Orange dust

A group of shirtless boys

Cross fast the forlorn street 

Shrieking sound subtle the dust

It is the village

Where I was born

Where the leaves of succulent plants 

Were plucked to kill the girl children

The dust remains orange as of those days 

With little paleness in colour

I name the village, 

As, Where I was once born 

And Survived..

~ Ahila..