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The Widow
There she is, the widow,
Walking like an aimless ship,
Across the meadow,
The mute grass seems to feel her grief, deep.
The cruel sadness flutters its flag in her ashen sari,
The goalposts’ blank stare worsens the things more,
The sitting sun on the branch of a tree,
Can hardly do anything for her.
Stares through the windowpane,
Daily at the dead street,
And the almost dying lantern,
The squirrel seems to make her smile a bit.
She is a moon,
Yet can’t stand the existence,
Of the physical one,
Since memory lets her fly and shed tears.
The hectic machine-like-earth whirls as usual,
And all her torn heart needs is Homerian Circe,
Who can heal her orphan heart salvaging from the timeless jail,
But reality is rather impolite and alive with farce!
