Life on a Rocking Chair

to and fro, it moves
in not so hasty way,
perceiving the touch of
the gentle wind,
narrowly observing
the passing vehicles
viewed
from the windowpane.

the pigmented doves

corroding on the roof
of a dilapidated hut.
a skinny old woman
washing some clothes;
maybe she’s tired – but
have to endure
the hardships in life.

sway, sway gradually and
let the fancy
be freed, while
conceiving the past and
the state to come. then,
she closed her eyes
and forbid not her spirit
to wander forever.

A House

At the roadside, there’s a structure,
it seems a house but I wasn’t sure.
It was built some years ago,
long before my life was brought into.

The dweller calls it a house,
but others call it otherwise
Some people name it a shanty,
a symbol of difference in society.

Built with scrap galvanized iron,
pieces of leftover woods and carton.
Some old rubber wheels on the roof,
to strengthen the foundation so soft.

Branded as informal settler,
but eloquently called a squatter.
Often disregarded by the authority,
remembered only on election day.

A squatter, a house, or a shanty,
no matter how it is called by many.
It is deemed as a decent shelter,
by those who are very less in power.