A Glimpse of the Gathering
I had decided to embrace
An acquired grace
To be in the race:
I chose the idiom.
I could not match references
To the hallowed men of letters.
I marvelled at the spring of language
Locally grown and neglected.
The truism were unfalteringly matched,
I found myself no match.
Ideologies and bankruptcies
Of tradition were discussed.
It was a large sumptuous spread
Over which my distant- guest,
Now appeased, offered
Her local delicacies:
She asked a gingerly me
To dig into the red chilly
And savour its roasted pungency.
I had been nurtured
In this parlance of jugglery.
My raw utterances
Were like the crackling of the thunder,
The idiom did not choose me.
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