Home Is A Heritage Poem by KATOCH P C K PREM

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home is a heritage

Home is a philosophy of heritage
I still count each mud block
in an age of red bricks
that boast of richness, and inflate ego.
I do not know why I do it but it gives pleasure
I fail to explain.
Past is inscrutable and pleasant
but still I do not love,
it sends you to unsophisticated life
rural is a gentle thought of a tribal instinct
only elites want to revivify,
to perpetuate love
for nature, poor peasants and the dalits
love that exists nowhere
and yet it fills documents of history
and I sit, shuffle pages
and feel images rising high
and so home is a heritage
I tell everyone.

Home is an experience, a feeling
and when you move in the hallways of past
it resurrects and takes you back
to verdant fields
grasslands and little valleys.
You look up, and mountains of the north beckon
it looks after river,
every stream, plant and tree as if.

I stand in the vast half-harvested fields
with a sickle,
a shovel and a bamboo basket,
a momentary thought
a past truth, a naughty smile with a lie
a quick act and I see, I run down
to a water spring
to play with village girls and boys
that was history of joy and innocence
I write.

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