yet in my dreams

this house is mine
my father did not raise it,
nor his brother or father,
but the touch of my hand
is in every brick …
mixed in with the lime, sand and paint
is the tang of the English language ..
while never-worn pairs of trousers,
unneeded, take a trip sometimes
to the shanty homes of refugees …
fridge, TV, laptop, washing machine
mutter in English, sing English songs …
afraid of a mere half-page of English
cows and tigers slouch side-by-side to the drinking-pool,
while at the same time geckos, mice and rats
snigger at the law and scatter their shit
over the pristine walls and floor …
even now this palace of illusions, this Indraprosto
is littered with the half-charred trunks of trees
and the scorched and helpless carcases of animals …
this monster is my slave,
it barks in English, sings English songs,
and spends its time digging a moat,
the enemy won’t get in …
the lips of my ancestors, primed to shape later disputes,
stay forever closed …
still upon the string of my dreams my mother’s chador hangs out to dry,
my father’s single shawl, a wedding-gift, hangs there too,
and two pairs of broken slippers
are lying on a cowdung-cleaned floor …