Sitting by the window, looking at street white halogened color.
The day is old & sleeping, in few hours it’ll be young again.
I want to sing a song like baul, like sufi saint, like an ustad
I want to play violin or flute or sarangi in tune of homecoming.
The silence, that flow through the nocturnal breeze,
(I) Want to decorate it with the tune that’ll be compose
The night is moving to blue; the moon lighting the darkest corners.
The building at distance shining with lights–
So many stories, chapters there.
I want to return home; I want to sing a song for this
But, return is easy in saying not in thoughts or actions.
(So) I wade myself in this isolated darkness–swim I never like.
As the crow caws in sleep, as fan swing in speed
As the diary flap in starvation–she want writing
I know I’ve to be moving on with failure & success on my back in big sack
Like the runner postman from ancient days…
——
