Anyway, this is the poem that I wrote to my grandmother. The old tea factory occurs me in the town. The light streams through the cracks, haunting lines, spectres, shards of memory, dancing patches on the crumbling walls, sunlight on the broken column, derelict and silent, stone bodies on the cooling lines, a lonely mango tree and neglected hyperspace, marigolds under the sickle choking, and fried in India in need of pruning, only the eternal peace and butterflies. You're sorry hitched to your ways, my grandmother came and she was sick and began working in the tea plantations for humans as a child laborer. And thankfully, before my mother died, I was able to get some of that background. You're sorry hitched to your waste, you tore off the morning to sunset. The open spaces of the hills and hills, your lot of prison under the African sky. Number fingers picking leaf by leaf by leaf. You become letted in the ways of the fields, reading the hills and the hills, writing your name in the wind, wafting it across the seas. The lush green hills of leaves hoisted up, spread out to dry on shelf lined with hissing. You turn the leaves by hour by hour to catch the rays of the African sun. You work for a shilling amount. You look whisperally at the rows of boxes. So her work was to dry the leaves and then it was packed into boxes and then sent to India. You look whisperally at the rows of wooden boxes, filled the leaves, dried, drained, to begin their journey across the village seas, to the soil of your heart, your heart, your home. The leaves, the leaves, you see your fingers, fingering the leaves. The African sun sealed within your hands, reach out to the boxes, the boxes. The light streams through the cracks, spectres, shards of memory, moving patches on the cum laude walls, sunlight on the broken column, all is derelict and silent, stone bodies on the cooling lines. A long shadow is cast over the hills and valleys of curzing, abandoned by history, across the Kalapani, to the hills of Beswada in Ande Pradesh, the river penna flowing old and labyrinth, catches images, fleeting of the old tea factory under the African sun. And my grandmother never went back to India, so it's remained a memory. Dancing on the waters of the hills and valleys, winds swept the belonging, my spirit forever entwined with yours. I have come in search of your dreams, growing in your golden, submerged in air, under the African sky. You're the best. You're the best.