When you ask I will have to answer. You know that. And I know you saw me ducking for cover. As cowards do.
I know what you are going to ask. About the girl in a peach-coloured dress. What have I done with her?
You left her with me that summer morning when the white lilac was in a full bloom. So wide its branches brushed against our front windows.
What happened to the girl?
She left, I tried.
Left, you repeated.
Black-birds cried over the stubble-field.
Where did she go?
She went to the city to write poems.
Did you let her?
How could I? Only few like poetry.
What did you do?
There was work in the factories and offices. Good work. Regular pay.
Did she love?
Some she did. But not for long. She wore lacy dresses and lay under some drunkards for fistful of dreams.
What happened then?
The war came. Houses burned and people died. We were scared. Girl and I.
Where is the girl now?
She crossed the ocean with the southern star above it.
But you are no longer waiting for answers.
Because you know I cannot find the girl under the southern star. The girl in a peach-coloured dress, long braid bobbing down her back. Running under the plum trees heavy with fruit. Into your wide open arms.
We are almost in the middle of the stubble-field. I wish it to be over. I know it was me who sold the girl. For regular salary and trinkets from markets. And did not hold her when she cried.
I wish you will throw the stone now.
But you did not.
Fog lifted. While we wept in the middle of the stubble-field. You and I.
In the foreign land with nowhere to duck for cover.
It was the day of reckoning. And we were not ready.