United barks and howling of the village dogs,
compete with the broken stanzas of his usual song.
He threads the darkness with jumbled steps
and misses the path only to stumble back into it.
He kicks at a stone that is hidden in the pitch black of a cloudy night,
and he utters a profusion of untamed cursing to placate his rage.
The synchronic croaking of hordes of swamp frogs,
animates the night and fills the air.
He asks some questions and replies to himself,
only to argue alone over the truth of the answers.
He passes by a homestead and shouts out obscenities,
seemingly oblivious to the fact that tenants are long asleep.
Watched by the eyes of an owl on the hunt,
who is perched on a twig in the double darkness of a creepy muhacha.
He tunes up his voice and sings louder,
attempting to drown and suppress the tide of rising fear.
His breathing comes short and he doesn’t blink as he passes the graves,
he thinks of the dead and their angry spirits that wander around.
The deafening crackling of the black night cricket,
permeates the air with a solid presence.
He thinks of his woes and decides he should cry,
and with no one to console him, he proceeds in broken sobs.
He sheds some tears and diffuses the knots in his heart,
knowing his drunkenness is an excuse for those who would ask why a man would cry.