Simple Beliefs

The river of myth flowing deeply
between the traditions
bridging the gaps of the truth and reality,
I can sip and suck the
tradition out of the bony and taloned fingers of my grandma
whose body is perfumed with
the burning of the ashen coals,
a rusty clay pot and the cinnamon sticks.

Her body,
an epitome of tradition,
judging the reality
from the squinting weak eyes
some days she gets confused
between the dove
and a patch of cloud
/a promise of rain and nature/
to her both are sacred.

She keeps her eyes closed and ears shut
when she passes
the blaring radio in the mornings
too much blood in the streets
these days
she says
her soul is still pristine
and she wants it unscathed
saving it for her day of the salvation
a promise not to broken or forgotten.

Like the bowl of milk left overnight
which curdles her belief
but with her unfettered belief,
she wards off the evils in our life
by a few peppercorns in her hands
life is still simple for her
as the laugh of a giggling child
pure and unbroken,
like the promise kept by her loved ones
to meet her on the other side.

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