By Angel Liz Davis
Darkness from the woods entering their houses,
Like the turbulence of an afternoon nap extended to twilight.
The old swing twirled by creepers with violet blooms.
The rooster scratching the dried leaves of jackfruit;
His movements resembling the steps of a funeral song.
The young boy playing on his bicycle with broken chains.
A monitor lizard crawling in the firewood shack.
Servants in the household cleaning the front yard.
Crickets from the graveyard near the rubber estate,
Abandoned, hear them sweeping off dried leaves.
Darkness from the woods entering their houses.
Their forefathers and their sins rotting in the cemetery,
Like the petals of white roses on expensive tombs.
The stories of lust and greed snoring with them,
Emitting malodorous smell of their obnoxious past.
Generations of feudal lords upholding a fake legacy.
And an invisible aura of shame and sin over their heads.
No one shall know but the mosses in the cemetery.
And the uncanny rubber leaves rustling truths.
Darkness from the woods entering their houses.
Nonchalant them cutting bread on Maundy Thursday.
Hungry wolves howling the truth to the village,
Calling out names of the perpetrators
Whose guilty lives are kept untouched.
But the Son of God heard all lamentations.
For He shall doom all the legacy to dust.