falling
behind
these bars of white
billowing
curtains of now
I sit in
rapt attention gazing
at the
ghosts who left this
room to roam
the summer outside.
listen! a
sharp cry from the boy
who fell
from the young
branches of
that mango tree.
in the
stillmess of the night,
in his
sweltering bedroom
he shall
nurse his broken arm
with the
stoical passion
of
adventurous youth
and the
lingering freshness
of a girl’s
laughter wafting
over the
shimmering rusty
rooftops as
he sat in the
green-dappled
shadows
of the
mango leaves while
straining
his ears to
separate
the joyful sound
from the
tinkle of the
ice cream
cart’s bell
and the
whistling of
the summer
kites and
the singing
of the flowers
in the
butterfly fields.
after the
fall, he will lie
there in
the grass thinking
with amused
wonder whether
there shall
ever be need
for all the
king’s horses
and all the
king’s men,
for pain is
as sweet
as a hot
summer’s love.
the ghosts
will play
outside
until the shadows
throw their
dark limbs
on the
billowing bars,
and then they
will enter
this house
to retire.