National Poem Writing Month ’22: 17. Buri

When our little iron gate used to get opened, chime can be heard–different for each person. She used to know which one was rang by whom.

When I used to opened it to leave the house, she would be there if she’s in around.

Waving her tail she would be greeting me; panting and grasping breath.

Eyes pristine and begging for pet.

Oftentimes after summer recede monsoon arrives, she used to make a mason out of me.

Few old bricks stacked broken and deshaped as walls; cardboard, collected from community’s grocery stores, for a roof thatched.

A castle for eight years old me.

A makeshift kennel for her and her children.

Though rarely she enter that but love to push her pups into there.

When our little iron gate was being opened, she used to run when it’s me.

The children used to peep seeing the source. Soon they learnt my chime.

And she was nor alone but a train running late to reach destination.

After one evening our great giant German Shepherd left me, it was She who took her place.

A stray by nature, gentle by heart.

Buri was her name who guard my boyhood.

Note: Buri means Old Woman. How she got that name I can’t recollect now.

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