^hive of glass, where nothing unobserved can pass^

Did you find a word? "Yes, it's a Village"

Infact My Village, My Childhood;

The merry children are playing in the little village street;
The old men sit by the doorway their evening rest is sweet.

And careful mothers are busy, they hurry out and in;
Or pause by the door for a moment to smile at their children's din.

And farther away in the distance, from the playground comes a shout,
as quick-eyed youths at their pastimes run, strong of limb, about.

The village wakes up thirsty and hungry as tribal songs blast from a radio house,

Rising sun and blue skies peek humbly as a drifting breeze descends to dowse.

And of the creatures mad wild and tame mating calls echo from the nearby pond,
As white birds fly out far, playing a game the world is a playground for the young.

And the forcados river comes rolling fast I reflect on the sweet memories of the past,
Hand in hand with the wonders of the ages ducks float on the river, in twos and threes:

I die in this seconds, alive only on this pages burying self in a beautiful village's peace.

Remembering the days how I was part of it, enjoying every moment of ease.

Now I look back where I visit once in a while, where I find nothing has chanced except,

the people; 

still those dark jungle seems chasing me;

still those unfamiliar faces seems familiar;

still those classrooms where I once played seems known;

still playing in mud naked, seems familiar;

still those ghost stories seems real which give goosebumbs;

still those heat in the sun seems like the demand of "Kulfi" from the bicycler;

and with still those river, lakes, birds, soil and many more remains the same; 

I am just lost here imagining, "One day would come when I would move there";

Looking for a reason why people like me go in town and remember about the place here.  

It  goes on and on how we feel as;

The old men sit by the doorway, the children play in the street;

The dead are up in the graveyard, their rest is long and sweet.

  _yaitsmebibek