Durgarani

Durgarani's palms carried

The memory of

The map of Burma

Where she was born.

It was different from

Myanmar in today's Atlas.

Each wrinkle on her skin had a story

That was conceived

For ninety-two years.

When she was not yet a woman,

Her long hair fell below

The knees, so that her mother

Tied it in plaits joined as a bun.

She wore short white skirts

And played tennis each evening.

I heard that my grandpa

Married her when she was thirteen --

Enamoured of her butter complexion

 And sparkling eyes.

He changed her name and like the moon,

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he waxed and waned in her new home.

She never played tennis again

Or entered a classroom.

But on her deathbed, she sang

"Orange juice and lemons" for me.

Doctors diagnosed her with dementia.

She apparently did not know who I was;

Perhaps in her misty dreams, 

I was a childhood friend to comfort her

At the end of all voyages.

Although orange juice and lemons

Are not sold for a penny nowadays;

Yet the rest of the song is true.

The grass is still green, 

The rose is a flaming red.

And I remember my grandma ages 

After she is gone…till

I am dead.