......those old paddy fields.

Its a painful feel,
i know,
everyday i pass
losing something
which belongs to the best part of my life
those paddy field,
where i saw the seasons change
the lush green babies
and the heaps of golden hays.
And those tiny flowers,
born after the first summer rain;
are the most prettiest of world.
The small fishes
caught by hands and towels.

It is painful,
there are no kids in the summer fields
making clay pots ,
plucking wild berries from fence shrubs.
and no loud noises of children playing in the heat,
no grazing cows,
no narrow streams of springs.
There is only the wheeze
of cross cultured trees,
and smells ashes of burned paddy.
things changed
but still from the dark ;
frogs cry like calling the death towards....