Looking forward to the annual budget? Here’s our wishlist for Ms. Nirmala Sitharaman!
Watching the play of light coming through a keyhole on the ceiling in her dark room at night, and the particles of duct in the rays, the poet wonders.
Dark night gives pleasure to hear things quiet I ignore throughout the day- days week -weeks year-years The breath going in coming out create a melody I’m mustn’t miss.
Ceiling above me create a pattern of poetry with light when a small keyhole in the door allows the aura to seep into, It is deep and clear the dust particles are dancing in it Do they also talk like us? or Do they just exist? like some of us!
Now when I quit the porch of my house, things become a little louder yet allow me to hear the fluttering of maple leaves or flickering of old street lamps Leaves are the ones, who are yellow and dead they fall on the lake covered with algae they met kissed and celebrated death. Lamps who are rusted yet flicker in hope of another day. I noticed all this yet it isn’t just me living in this city of poems…
Image source: Sinnita Leunen on pexels
A passionate scribbler and wishful bread earner. A voracious reader and loves to connect readers
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