House
Where Kipling Lived
Leaves drop in sibilant silence
The paths that leads to it are unswept.
The trees draped with vine
Breathe the air that he breathed
A century and a half ago; yet,
Seems like yesteryear.
The bungalow stands in decrepitude
Rotten wood painted green
Crumbling with no master inside
To give it a dusting, Gunga Din would do fine.
The staircase down which he descended
Now creaking and brittle with age
The balustrade coated with grime.
At the entrance is a weathered bust
A reminder of the man who portrayed the
East
As a sign-seeking misinterpreting man of the
West
The trees entered his heart; the vines his
soul
There they stand before the old bungalow
If we be The White Man’s Burden[2]
How come he praised Gunga-Din[3]
You’re
a better man than I am?[4]
Here, in this dereliction, was born one who
loved the East
Told its stories to an appreciative West
Forgetful city, oh, please remember your son
Your history books take scant notice of
this one, your bard.
