I look out.
The window-front-view is not still.
It is at the very point -
Where the sky is getting larger and larger.
There are these colours of red and ash,
Making the passing clouds look like:
Smouldering pyres.

As if, fit to drop,
The evening sun is a bulge
Of quiet grief.
No matter what,
For its whole life,
Has the sun not burnt itself:
Everyday!

Why doesn't the sun close-down, altogether?
I am looking out.
I am looking within.
Grief is binding all situations
Of my life.
Grief is at the very point -
Where I am a smouldering pyre

The Taj Mahal Hotel
New Delhi
December 2012

Geeta Chhabra

I look out.
The window-front-view is not still.
It is at the very point -
Where the sky is getting larger and larger.
There are these colours of red and ash,
Making the passing clouds look like:
Smouldering pyres.

As if, fit to drop,

The evening sun is:

A bulge of quiet grief.

No matter what,

For its whole life,

Has the sun not burnt itself:

Everyday!

Why doesn't the sun close-down, altogether?
I am looking out.
I am looking within.
Grief is binding all situations
Of my life.
Grief is at the very point -
Where I am a smouldering pyre

The Taj Mahal Hotel
New Delhi
December 2012

Geeta Chhabra