The Backyard

I see this abandoned house
through the windows of my bedroom-
it’s backyard full of tall mango trees,
guava and fig in the farthest corners.
The bright red hibiscus and the purple flowers
bloom in glee and joy,
those birds I’m acquainted with,
sit on my attic windows
to sing a rhythm of their own.
But why did my mornings
abruptly change one day?
Waking up to drilling sounds,
men with giant chainsaw
to remove the standing ‘debris’,
excavators smashing the abandoned house-
a home for shrub, wood, warbler and lark.
The backyard destroyed in an hour or two,
machines grubbing the remaining stump
to construct tall buildings
with large French doors
but no soil for life.
I fear to stand near my windows
and see those aged trees,
fragile on the ground, lying dead
and those little sparrows
forget how to sing in a war scene.
The sunlight had to struggle to come to my room
but look at you today,
scorching in fury
with no trees to hide.
I’m waking up to extreme noises in
someone’s backyard,
oh, not a backyard anymore.
The tree says, “I have been your friend, lover, muse
yet you watched me die.”

Sahana Mira. S is a writer and art journal enthusiast from Chennai. Her works have been previously published at Edex- The New Indian Express, Remington Review and Verse of Silence. She can be found as @sahanamira on Instagram.

Featured image: Milin John/Unsplash