The Window

I sat next to the window,
watching the rain fall down.
It was, indeed, a pleasant show,
for the sky had shed its gown.

I sat there without moving much,
scribbling words on paper
about memories, thoughts, and such –
the words meeting their maker.

And then you came and stood
next to me and the rain ceased to pour,
the woodcutter resumed cutting the wood;
and the clouds shed the heaviness they wore.

You stood there for a while
and I pretended to notice not.
You stood there looking outside – much style.
Oh, how many hearts have you rot?

And then you walked away
in a moment – so brief –
my body still, I felt my soul sway;
my heart broke down in grief.

I took a deep sigh in the cool, fresh air,
and continued writing, playing with words.
You have seen knees bend down in prayer;
have perished many lovers – in herds.

You came back again – same place;
this time, humming a happy song,
I turned around – like sunflower in a vase,
to approach you, and hope nothing goes wrong.

We talked, in soft, unhurried speech,
of love, longing, and attachment,
I stuck to you, like an undesired leech,
bewildered by your glow and the strawberry scent.

And then you said that you had to leave,
the day, you agreed, had been long,
the night would be longer – nothing to grieve,
and walked out of the door, humming the same, happy song.

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