It was her,
That I gazed upon,
In a ill-purple saree,
Neatly fit to perfection,
Locks swayed by the occasional breeze,
In a golden dash of sunlight did I let her freeze,
A pot of clay tugged along,
To the river nearby flowing strong,
And there was life in her eyes,
An angel’s dream,
Caressed by the elements,
Flutter of thoughts in utter contrast,
The bamboo forest shelters
Her solace so agile,
For no trip even betters,
Something away from home... for a few miles,
She glides over the fences,
Dried clothes and usual chores,
In reality and pretenses,
Way better than a dusty rose,
So much to see, so much to believe,
More to try than to achieve,
Bundled at the shore, in silicon dust,
That adheres to her face in innocence and trust,
As the dusk comes calling by,
The pot full of water and her face...
... Washed carefully as crickets chant,
And the cymbals prayed,
To a reluctant glance,
At the sunset over the charming water,
She leaves me in a trance,
For her little quarter,
Alone am I insinuating through,
So full is she without a clue,
Such a serene face, such is Almighty’s grace,
Stay shall I without ... in this place,
Until the day is over and out,
The birth of you in my clouds,
In worlds all still, I’ll seek the right tense,
In which you’ll flow in my presence...
