To those evenings...

And there were some evenings...
When with a book of Keats
And mind ful of images
I would seek a refuge to your first floor...
To that room with half opened green door...
I would never knock...
The yellow light from the corridor
Would cast my shadow on the floor...and also cut into your room...
Your ghazal seeped bed...
Your red cement cool...
Half awake you would smile
As if you were waiting for the precise time...
And we would talk...
Laugh...burst into blast...
Your dad would sometimes come
Joining us with his songs some...
His voice simple and chaste
Would leave for us sometimes  unusual images...
of an ivy on the porch...creeping climbing to reach stars of the night...
Of a village road bending to meet a well...
Of a river bathing in vermillion where someone dwelt...
All these songs would evoke...
And the tingling of glass wares...
Urged us three to get soaked
More into the idyllic passage of evenings...
Lying on the floor sometimes I would
On a scrap of paper draw a tree with charcoal wood...
My drawings got surely then interfused
With ghazals...glasses red and brown smells...
O those evenings only with blessed creative calm fell...
On us like silent dew from the space above so unreachable...