by Yeshi Gemaneh
(Oakland, CA, USA)
Some years back, I wrote a short story book based on my childhood experience and observation of my village. I submitted to publisher and still waiting for its turn. In short it sounds as follows:
My VillageA dense timber the huge farmland
Remained a vision
Wild animals roared like a thunderstorm
The cottages lined up free
Like a civilized Army
In the thatched roofs, smoke stood up
Like pillars
Barbaric flowers cherished all around
Roosters announced the time
Where there was no clock
Boys and girls pitched each other a lemon
As a sign of love
Nature offered them the best
Far away from doing wrong
Neighbors gathered for a cup of coffee
Mom prepared to deliver herself
At a village where there is no doctor
That is what I call home, My Village
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