Literary Yard

Search for meaning

By: Abu Siddik

The orange sun is peeping through
The twisted branches,
Trucks, buses, and cars are speeding
On the highway

The old man by the road is mending the yard—
Carrying a bag of white sand, a pail of water,
A piece of wood to batter the sand

Bent-back, beaten limbs, circled by
Columns of smoke and dust, he is mending yard—
A rickety cycle, a pair of used tires hanging from a
Leaning bamboo pole, a tool-box,
A cycle pump leaning against a tin wall

‘Why are you mending the yard?
A shower will waste your day’s deed.’ I say,
The dying man sniffs, then smiles like a child,
And he begins to batter the sand again.


Abu Siddik teaches at Plassey College,West Bengal, India. He loves to write poems, short stories and critical articles on the struggle and resilience of the Indian marginalised communities, the underdogs, the outcasts. He has 12 books. He edits a Bangla literary portal

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