Once rice plants in golden frocks danced on my lap. And I was proud. Now the weeds dry my veins. Once reapers, bending like the sickles, lulled me with their bucolic songs. And I snoozed under the paddy fragrance. Now I wake up frightened by the ‘profit – talks’. Once the ecstatic moon rose above the rhythms of the night. Moonlight was so charming with some magnetic eyes. And I held my chest as a stage for your dancers and singers. Now your nostalgia is twined around me. Once the monsoon hid me deep under the water – fishes and frogs enjoyed their carnival. And I was tickled by the floating canoes. Now an architect stares at me. A tipper lorry vomits the sand and stones on my face. I die leaving a furrow in your mind. *A dying paddy farm in Kerala, India is the speaker. This poem was first printed in Off the Coast (Spring 2015 issue), US, and then reprinted in The Literary Hatchet by Pear Tree Press, and also in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope by punkswritepoemspress, both US.