Early morning sun is squeezed into my sleeping room
Through the daringly freaky window that keeps opening
Without prior consent,
Sleeping corpses I think could be woken up
Somehow, a cry, a bang or a kick
Difference hardly it ends in,
I don’t foresee any devils of that sort.
Cotton inside the mattress oppressed for years
It has been with to rescue
No one at the doors.
Perspired all through the chilly night of full moon day
Face I must this unholy gypsy
Standing right before my window in the lonely sky;
That rusty piece of plastic like thing
At first wake sneaks
At second wake shrieks.
These well-wishers so called
Find time enough to recall the high tides
In the accounts at the month ends,
Of course their bosses pay and they gay.
Heaviest are the young mornings
After sleepless nights starting from
Living room to study room and to kitchen
Then ‘gain to study and then to balcony thrice
Then to bed and then to dining and then to bed,
At last into solitary darkness!
Back! Black! Black! Black!
A five odd pairs of seducing moonlight
Through those black holes in my roof,
May have been,
Popping in and dancing on to the snores of Tommy under the cot;
Then like cathedral candle burning to melt down a while later,
Like deceiving venalities of poignant human life,
Vanish the moony beams
By the trumpets of leisurely waking sun
With a slippery yawn
Ingratiating smile
Woke me up!
You unfaithful mongrel of the dishonest skies!
