The nerves were smoothed.
The blood didn't rush to the head;
it flowed languidly,
caressing the walls of blood vessels.
The three day old yellow cup
of lipton tea rolled
on the table-
to and fro, to and fro-
like a pendulum,
cursed for a lifetime.
Its oscillation,
synchronized with the fan
and the breeze.
The leaves outside hummed
a tune, a strange ancient tune.
The breeze,
of course was the artist.
Suddenly,
a leaf flew from the open window,
invaded the sacred space.
The leaf escaped inside the yellow cup.
The cup's curse lifted.
It's oscillation stopped.
Maybe, the leaf was licking
the three day old dried remains of tea.
Was it the breeze or the leaf,
which lifted the curse,
the question
reigned the dreams that night.
No comments:
Post a Comment