Gopa B. Ceaser
Each morning I leave behind an old face from a third-floor window,
trailing me leaving my alley
all i could do is walk slowly…
Each lunch-break (provided) makes me think of an old face on a third-floor window,
mourning Eliotian eterized afternoons,
“even a crow is scarce…”
Each evening, my long walks end where an old face waits at a third-floor window
to have a cup of tea with his eldest progeny…
But,
Each day I return with “heaps of broken images”
struggles, hopes, glooms
cash-career-looms
tiring, tyre-ing, trying BOOMs
“How was your day, kid?”
“I aint have one, BABA”
“two minutes, our tea will be ready”
“I aint have any, BABA”
He sips alone from empty cups while our kitchen basin suffers from insomnia…
Each night, an old face in third-floor window keeps counting stars, if the sky is clear
“Why do they often get de-focused!”
