Two

Two pigeons, on my window sill,
shying away from the monsoon rains,
gently cooing, with life afill,
seeing me, they risked the clouds again.

Back they came, fleeing those dreary, wet pains,
but I, covert in a corner, did blunder,
at their confused, affectionate fluttering- I laughed without refrain;
scared, they fled, wits asunder.

They were, two hearts, each shielding the other,
made wet by a person's blunder,

sticking together through varied times,
and by fate. Ah, Fate! What a wonder!

And I am one, with two eyes,
taking it all in,
hoping to be knowing and wise,
amidst the wide world's din.

The Flute Seller...

The Flute Seller

On Sunday Mornings,

I sit and eagerly wait,
by my Window, for that soothing gait,
of distant melodies,
to flit past.

Played on a flute, unseen,
by an invisible basuriwalla, a fluteseller, I mean,
who strolls, (I think) with his pipes and reeds,
playing his salutes, his thoughts, his pleas.

His yet unseen flutes I never do buy,
but look for him every seventh day,
hoping that he passes me by,
as he goes about his blessed way.

On a Sunday Morning, I do awake,
I do sit, and break my fast,
but my mind does only wait,
for those distant, distant, so distant,

sweet melodies to flit past.