the writing on the wall

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.