Even if the trees have been cut down
and neat bushes planted in their place,
if the sagging fence, the moldy bamboo poles and weedy thickets
have been replaced by a substantial metal spiked concrete wall,
even if the messy green and yellow bamboo grove
has been replaced by a steel and glass gazebo,
if the soft moss and spicy clover has been sprayed out of the lawn,
still the old garden will flourish in my memory.
Even if the sticky red soil has been concreted over
it will still squish between my toes
and paint fine patterns on white walls with the brush of Kunaja’s tail,
it will still run up the stairs on small feet,
the birds that lived in the trees will still chirp and chatter in my heart
and shouting boys with wooden swords will forever inhabit that space,
that place and that space will always be there,
as memory and time circle longingly back.