The cold rain falls, through the window: words

chattered, rows of hands roamed around in the empty

places that once loved darkness: shrink beneath

the blue skies, peer at me with mocking flashes—

Haven't I seen the shades, shares of grey eyes?

Here, here in the sun pickled shores, our past lives

wishing to be blown, perhaps blown sand

never whispered? Until we stand in the subway,

watch the terror of life, all compiled in the flute of lies.

Take my hand, take my hand until there's no space

for sliding grains, arms twitching beneath the surface—

We follow the shadowy days, until the darkened sky

stared in vain, perhaps there's no gain

without pain, I dreamt of sea-waves, of devious

prey where we laugh, we dance in the fire of grim.

Drowned in a black screen, I finally dreamt of dreamy

flutes, stilled in a murmured good-bye.

— 18th September, 2023