The Bells.

The tree had bent old at your backyard,
Dropping fires of red on the ground.
You came visiting in the afternoons
And I assured the folks were fine.
You handed me a krishnachura,
That you kept twirling between your fingers,
While your mind kept wavering at the thoughts of a distant lover,
And smiled at my complain of not ever getting anything else.
Your eyes almost close when you laugh.
Did I tell I love the way it makes me feel?
I still got those anklets you got for me,
And said you would love to see me wear them everyday.
They are old now,
But the bells still make a sound,
Of made up memories inside my head.
I tuck them away underneath the mattress.
They annoy me for the loud noise you make.

But today I bring them down,
For my granddaughter to wear.
She has the same dusky skin
As your lover, I swear.