Vacant
house of mine, in meditation,
Scant
of sounds and noise, in search of vegetation.
Single
me, can’t adorn well the rooms,
Least
desire to do so, in dreaming heart blooms.
Some
tinkling of bells does resound,
Smell
of deliciousness from downstairs roams around.
Pigeons
frequently visit, with a friend’s love and care,
To
share togetherness, loneliness to impair.
Books
often seem my pillow, or lie adjacent,
Aiding
emergence of thoughts, nascent,
The
food, yeah, which I cook,
Perplexed
and scared, at the experimenter, it looks.
Both
the sun and the moon, peep through the window,
Responding
to my gaze, which they owe,
Oft,
at eve, the tunes of life and pain are played,
Old
colours paint memories, half blurred, half faded.
Craves
heart to take on different safe roads,
Devoid
of fear, pain, betrayal, aching loads.
Where
love be the language, care the currency,
And
thousand hands to help in emergency.
Why
the four walls of my house dearer than worldly ways,
Why
boring silence seems better than scary worldly chase.
Am
I bound to some invisible thread, I know not,
In
vacant house of mine, waiting for sky’s dot.
Yet
my efforts never tire,
I
bravely dream and desire.
Like
a solitary lass dwelling in a sky-touching abode,
To
the sky of dreams, busy in constructing the road.
