She sits,
maybe silently by the yellow window.
From time to time she brushes aside those strands of hair,
that seem too eager to caress her pale face.
She sighs and goes on reading,
the book that mourns for her touch.
Dostoevsky fascinates her,
his words claimed her soul,
like Murakami has distorted her sight.
She is at harmony in silence.
If you pass that yellow window,
at around 3 in the afternoon
you might just spot her.
Her head bent over those demanding books.
She may even turn and look at you,
but her vacant eyes see no one.
They see only elusive dreams.
She laughs for no one,
cries for no one.
Her dreams are caught,
caught in the spider webs outside her window.
Her world is filled by authors of many an orgin,
their words stronger than her reality.
She tries to grasp that reality.
She succeeds sometimes,
when her sanity creeps back in.
But to let go is all she wants,
to float away into oblivion.
Realisation is yet to creep in,
responsibility catches on.
She is on her way to that land,
of endless roads and white beaches,
red mountains and purple waters.
If you wave out to her,
you might catch her attention,
though the chances are not very likely.
She is shut in there,
her concocted world,
filled by words with a million rhymes.
She is untouchable,
too far away to be reached,
Yeats' Lightning Bolt still out of her reach.
She sits by that yellow window searching,
searching for something,
that would awaken her.
Her fingers itch to fabricate her inner dwellings.
But she sits,
by that yellow window,
you can see her.
But she probably won't see you,
just not yet.
THE WINDOW – In the eyes of a passerby
ReplyDeleteI have seen her, by the yellow window,
drowned in this impeccable silence.
A perceptible presence of hopeful aroma dictates the scene,
her thoughts untainted and so pure, deprived of manipulation and pretence.
In these circumstances she nurtures her dream,
at first rather imprudent it may seem.
Incarcerated behind this four sided frame, her mind's eye sees no end,
concocted her world might be,
but, it certainly is free of hate, envy, greed, politics and treachery.
I past that window a little over noon,
and I observed her vacant eyes, elusive yet so keen.
As serene as it may seem to be,
a disquieting storm rages within.
I looked her right upon her eye and saw her passion would never die,
I know not how, I know not why, but she will come through it isn’t all that grim,
with a triumphant smile upon her face, lead on by her dream.
Anonymous.