Often they sat by the window,
she snapping into a book of bedtime stories
of kindred souls, spirit world,
haunted forests and backward time
taking big stride in the future not yet come
or perhaps never to come.
And he with a bagful of tricks of psychoanalysis
hiding behind people least aware of what they need.
On the windowsill, a pumpkin reserved for the Halloween
for which they were yet to find a weird dream.
Whatever the time, be it a day, be it a night,
The candle burnt, made of the wax
made out of hollowed stars
fallen on the bed of Hollywood dreams.
Maple leaves would be lying still
for the want of the inspirational wind.
Sushama Karnik
27-10-2021
T
