When our bus passing through hills,
Village clay homes situate under tree-shades
At slops of valleys, morning sunlight admires
Presence of these peaceful spirits,
One example free from flat-culture, lane or by lane pits,
Where we are dwelling in crowded fields,
Concrete walls and roofs kick sunrays
Into unhappy geeks, rotten heritage as proof.
Away from town, in sublime score of serenity,
These clay homes are beautiful shelters those turn
Into abode of nature’s creation whose dwellers
Can be proud of being share holders of the earth,
We cannot follow this track, we are tourists here,
We are habituated in factory, chimney, and computers
In the loop of livelihood, tumbled is serenity in our homes,
These clay homes are pristine abode of blues, sweet in our eyes.