A cloudy november morn...

This low pressure belt hit
Sky of the city
Take me straight to a window facing the east...
See you there
Standing back towards me
Looking absent mindedly
To the telephone tower
The lone iron structure
Set in the midst of paddy fields...
Far away...
A binocular vision...
A herd of cattle...
And a locomotive motion...

And there would also be a song
A female voice...
Crooning desire of fallen joys
And the wish to row upstream
A watery rhythm...
Full of foam and surf
A red scarf
Fluttering like a sign
Of liberty
From ten to five
Clerical time...
And the spray wetting your face
Upon your shoulder the glimpse of a silken lace...
And pebbles brown orange and green
Underwater...through which colored fish gleam...
And algae covered a big old rock
Upon which in a movie perhaps
An angel with golden locks
Waited all the day and wrote
Letters on pages white and loose
Before setting them free
In the breeze like leaves...
And they perhaps flew
To fall upon me and you...
At the window as you stood
And behind you me...on brood
As low pressure hit sky
Of the city fell...on my eyes...


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