She sang a song, I remember,

A tribal spring song, she said,

A song they all knew, they held dear.

For me the curious diction did not matter;

The soulful strain gladdened the air,

Made the evening bright.

She was pretty, slight,

With glossy, downy hair, petite

In her tribe's pink outfit.

She lived across the road, down that lane

Close to the house burnt last night.

I had watched the tall flame

Till it was calmed bit by bit.

The grey of the evening sky

Roofed our small 'house'

Crooked and tottering, made for us

Of bamboo and banana leaves

By our elders.

There she sang their song, they held dear,

Feet bent, head lowered,

The boots of policemen on gravel

Merged with her voice

Refusing to halt.

And her house could have been burnt

Last night. We never knew how it was

To see the familiar house in ashes,

Consuming the favourite dresses,

The textbooks, secret collections

And father's money. Yet she sang, eyes closed, shivering but slightly, as if it was their magical chant,

Though many of her people

Were stacking what they had in bundles

In a quest for untold routes.