I am Khuki

What are you doing professor?

Why are you gazing at me this way?

Why are you calling my hair, golden fibre?

It is no more golden– simply call jute fibre!

What are you searching into my eyes?

It is no lustrous with a woman of sixty.

But I know you are sad, tired of

Looking at vultures tearing off heads

Decomposed flesh out of the grave

Disfigured, grim bloated after postmortem.

 

Professor, do not grieve, this soil is holy

Look at the trees, at the blue sky

I am khukhi, my name rhymes with pakhi.