Farm Poem 1 --- (this one is for Ikru)

Frogs own this place 

This image is AI generated, will be updating the blog when we get to take one at the farm (ofcourse with Ikru's consent)

Not sure they know or care 

if or not you built this pond with sweat

and broken nails,

lined it with stone

dragged from the hill's belly—

they were here before your plans,

and they’ll stay long after.

green skinned kings

with mud for thrones,

they croak like prophets

on monsoon nights,

drumming down rain

with their thick-throated prayers.

loud, loud,

they don’t care if you sleep—

the night belongs to them.

and the dragonflies know it.

so do the snakes,

curling hungry near the waterline.

sometimes one climbs onto the pipe end,

just sits there

like he’s judging you.

he is.

they leap like the world is soft.

because for them, it is.

they trust the moss,

the muck, the leaf rot,

the wet.

you call it your farm.

they don’t call it anything.

they just live.

which might be the truest way to own a place.

Author : (inhouse poem)