Burning kerosene lit the clay walls
A fragrance in the night air
In its flicker a face partly comes to view
The earthy land where crickets cried
The streetlights are the stars and moon 
Water heated above burning wood
Baths conserve the precious droplets of translucent gold 

Stories, we heard of early starts
Schooling a privilege, but education existed 
In ways different to the curriculum today
Academia of there, compared to academia of here
Is a judgement that fails to smell the kerosene's sweetness. 

The stove sat above the burning fuel 
Cooked the meals simple and complex 
Eaten from the dusty soot painted pots 
Now served in the night out meals
That celebrate weekends and birthdays 
Still holding views of an inferior time
Of inferior people

Less it isn't, wasn't 
The idea laughter did not exist, does not exist 
Is as the failure to notice the wick
Soaking the kerosene it burns to make it last 
Laughter lasts through ancestry 
For it was nothing but the way of life
When we know no better than what we have 
We feel satisfied not deprived 

Did the farmer in the field not feel free
Plucking the mango, the sugar cain
Conversations between neighbours
And dressing up for a function
Do we only see functions as our invention?

Burning kerosene perfumes the thoughts
The colours of cloth, of spices, of rhythm 
Admired in the hands of the seller 
Devalued in the use of the everyday people 
Burning kerosene lit the clay walls
Projecting the shadow of a figure
Seen without the features 
That share the value of life.