The village post master has passions
Smelling of red chillies drying in sun.
His body’s blood has ancestor smells
Vague in blood,with inbuilt difficulty
To pinpoint dads to their grand dads,
The women running own chilly farms
In bodies ,with passions hot as spice
Such as the ancient Europeans braved
Rough seas to discover,a white species
In preservation of red stomach meat.
The gentle man has morals somewhat
Flexible, in a highly progressive village,
Failing to distinguish villagers money
From own ,as the money orders arrive,
His bags somewhat loose and money
Slips through its chinks, like starlight
On many moonless nights on his roof
Where he dries chillies in the nights.
He keeps the secrets of the villagers
When their letters arrive, a custodian
Of community’s secrets, lips sealed
About everyone’s farms, quid pro quo
That makes him a hot village darling.