The morning is putting its head out in the fog.
Pointing little fingers at it --
Everything is wrapped from the corners,
And touched and left, where they will not be found
There is a single leaf as huge as a kingdom--
With no awareness of its veins gone here, and there, beyond margins
The stairs are all white and mopped spotless
And the loneliness has begun to show in their clean faces.
If there was any light left in the clouds, and it was, for it shows now,
One could not know it would be so thick, and layered, and surface-less
The door would be often left just open- carelessness in wood and flesh
The still floor, and walls, and corners, which have stories but no mouths
Every breeze is folded into many small waves of happiness, waiting or gone.
It is all behind now the living, and the lane, and nobody will know-
Why everything will wait for sometime, and go on
While I go away.
