Chilly farms

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.

Women  run their own chilly farms
In bodies ,with passions hot as spice
Such as European ancestors braved
Rough seas to discover,a white flesh
In preservation of the stomach meat.

On many moonless nights on his roof
The man dries chillies into the nights.
He keeps all the secrets of the villagers
About everyone’s farms, quid pro quo
That makes him a hot village darling.

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