Inside the rented room,
muslin curtains
deepen the dusk—
the dying rays of sunshine
slant inside
through the translucent pores.

Eyes half-closed,
she looks around the place
she has lived for seven years—
so tiny, so decrepit, so gloomy.

The dim light plays
in the warm air—
red-brown, like tobacco dust.

She sees nothing
but the rickety furniture,
crumbling walls,
a dilapidated life.

The thick books
of mathematics and poetry
look like a medley
of grey and gold.

From outside comes
the muffled cawing of crows
among the simal trees.

In the red-brown haze,
floating beneath the waves—
calm, serious, melancholy—
her throat swells with a sigh,
weeping, hiding her face
in her palms, she surrenders—
seven years of yearning,
seven years of writing.

Now the evening shadows fall—
the sun, low on the skyline,
shines through the curtains—
a mere flickering brightness,
as if hummingbirds shed
their wings in flight.

The night chills,
she clings to her blanket,
sighs louder, longer;
her scratching of the pen—
its ice-cold nib nibbling on her heart—
lingers in prolonged vibrations
against the dampness of the night.


Poetry by Yayāti
Read 112 times
Written on 2019-07-10 at 14:16

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email
dott Print text

Ngoc Nguyen The PoetBay support member heart!
A nigh-flawless, extended image! I applauded (your very nearly excellent effort) nevertheless.


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I'm with Tom. Nicely done, Bibek.

Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
You are showing us how it's done! Bravissimo! Applauded, bookmarked, and read with profoundest gratitude.