The Window

Plain and square, fixed in the wall,

Panelled with wood of birch, perhaps sal,

With a pair of frosted glass panel

My source to the world, my only channel.

It shows me the sky, where clouds are formed

Funnily shaped, sometimes deformed

Deformed like my limbs; a sore to eyes

But the clouds are admired, up in the skies.

Through this window I see, I see the rising sun

And enjoy the rolling dusk; spread ,un-spun

Chants of Cuckoo and hymn of cricket

All enters through this window, crossing the picket.

Tiny drops of rain; on my cheeks they rest

Sometimes they flow with a salty taste

Gust of powerful winds above me; loom

But this window is my saviour, in the melancholy room.

I keep lying near window, that's fixed in the wall

On the bed of wood, of birch perhaps sal

And gaze into the world through this hollow screen

Where the soil is ocher, grass vividly green