in the fading light,

inside the rented room,

muslin curtains

over the windows

deepen the dusk.

the last ray of sunshine

slants inside

between the translucent creeks.


eyes half-closed,

she looks around,

& the place

she has lived for seven years

looks so tiny, so decrepit, so gloomy.


the dim light

plays in the warm air—

red-brown, like tobacco dust.

she sees nothing

but tired, overly-familiar furniture

that makes her dizzy.


the thick books

of mathematics & poetry

look like a medley

of grey & gold.

from outside comes

the soft cawing of crows

among the simal-trees.


in the haze of red-brown,

floating beneath the waves—

calm, serious, melancholy—

her throat swells with a sigh,

& swooning, weeping, hiding her face

in her palms, she surrenders—

seven years of yearning,

seven years of writing.


now the evening shadows fall.

the sun, low on the skyline,

shines through the curtains—

a mere flickering brightness,

as if hummingbirds shed

their wings in flight.


the night chills.

she clings to her blanket.

her sighs sound louder,

& the squeaking of the pen—

the sound clear as crystal on her heart—

lingers in prolonged vibrations.


Twitter @bibek_writes



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