By
Aurin Shaila Nusrat
Every window tells a story
Or more than one it hides behind its curtain.
Stories that never gets free
And fuels the blood running through a city’s vein.
Facades shattered after the midnight party
when the elite young lady, in her mid-thirty,
saw her mien on the opaque window pane
and became oblivious to the glee of sacking pretty little Ellen.
Woebegone and alone, the small-town-born,
with tousled hair and wear-out gown,
grudgingly joined the old dingy cafe;
where she came across someone someday.
From then she has been putting
the bluebells on sunny windowsill
on every fine Sunday morning.
The thought came by while gazing at the hazy sky,
drawn from pouring for aeons long.
Never had realized that heaven could sigh
Before he peered through the frills and ribbons.
Infidel wafts splashed the sallow skin;
for now he knew deep the hollow in
had beset only jade green yen
for the next window’s scarlet curtain.
Oh it was a rare rainy day and there would be blaze again.
Worn feline grace in hair like sun-rise rays
Born with butterfly lashes, prefaces to holy sin;
The quaint heart reveled her days,
Days and dusks as those had been.
Neither did she fear the arch-angel
Nor the devil from beauteous hell.
Because the soul had never been sold
To the rover red robin, used to be seen
on the dormer with gilded poles.
And so the course was gliding away
with the city’s frenzied way.
Still something seemed to be left untold!
Oh the days were good with her ten-year-old.
Those windows were always seen
Open, and so was the door on the right of first floor
For the would-be teen
And for anyone who could sing or play one-string violin.
She never resisted stealing raisins
Every other day,
Rather ‘what’s making her late?’ they would say.
They, the plump old couple, cherished her stay
Like any pastoral song or baked corn,
Like creamy ruff or gramophone with golden horn.
The honey-eyed knew since she’d born
That they were worth all the ways of sacred pray.
The pickle jars and porcelain tureen with Kheer either,
Or in the month of September
Pungent fragrance of palm-fruit pie
Never were missing on the portico led by
The French window;
where two pairs of eyes used to glow,
Had their parts deserted the hearts although.
