Moon at Half Past Noon

Godhuli (गोधूलि) is a beautiful and significant word, primarily from Sanskrit, that carries multiple layers of meaning, often associated with a specific time of day and its spiritual and cultural connotations.

Literal Meaning: “Dust of the Cows”
Time of Day: Dusk/Twilight
Auspicious Time (Muhurta)

This poem is a tribute to my elder sister’s short story.

The rain stitches silver through the trees,
Bare feet stamp patterns where the wildflower breathes.
Ten shadows woven to a single thread,
The smallest barely hip-high to the rest.

A scrap of red against monsoon-brown skin,
Eyes holding questions light cannot unpin.
They study her—this sudden shape of strange—
A silhouette that rearranges rain.

Oh little sparrows shaking off the storm,
Your laughter parts the clouds like morning warm.
“What wind brought you with your foreign hair?”
“What songs live in your throat we’ve never shared?”

Her schoolhouse leans where old roots interlace,
Its mango beams still whispering their grace.
“What happened?” asked to leaves that never tell—
The answer’s in the scattering of small shells.

The balcony sways with the chatim’s (a tree) weight,
Its branches humming wait, child, wait.
“Come warm your wings where my lantern glows—”
But they’re already spinning, mapping ghosts.

Oh little sparrows shaking off the storm,
Your laughter parts the clouds like morning warm.
“What wind brought you with your foreign hair?”
“What songs live in your throat we’ve never shared?”

The elder’s stories, the brewer’s tune,
Jasmine garlands strung beneath the moon.
No iron rings, no ledger’s demand—
Just soil for church and soil for band.

Fingers pluck at her pocket’s frayed design,
“Are you a dream that forgot to fade with time?
Your hair’s all wrong—men don’t wear it so—
Like the tree-witch who steals sleep below!”

Her laughter cracks like lightning through the room,
Remembering when she too feared the gloom—
That night she danced until her soles were raw,
And learned that borders blur beneath the paw.

Oh little sparrows who taught the trees to speak,
You’ve written your names on the back of her cheek.
Now her pulse beats in the same red dirt,
Her chalkboard blooms with your forest’s work.

The twilight bell dissolves in air,
Small shadows melt to everywhere.
A kingfisher takes the last light’s breath—
She sweeps up echoes the rain left.