Ivy of hope crawled up high
up the rock and cement--grey and high,
here from the small pages, sigh,
black letters, they sigh and whisper;
out in the window grill a sparrow chirps,
wings flap hard, no it’s not the sparrow,
my room echoes strong wing flaps.
“Jonathan Livingston, are you there?”
You can’t trust your imagination,
they too have wings to flap
willing to fly high.
“So you are still here, you know, there is no limit for sky and soul.”
His words addressed me or Jo?
“Jonathan!” I echoed my thoughts.
He flew, flapped through my small room,
his eyes seemed longing for the sky;
constraints are pain for wings that have soul.
I patted him with care,
Hosseini’s Mariam Jo is peeping;
heavy curtains would not hide her,
their eyes met; sometimes it’s good to be quiet.
Silence is more close to soul.
This room for a week
sheltered not just me, but
two more souls breathed here.
Life, freedom and sky seemed of the same color
A thousand splendid suns’ glory
lives not elsewhere, but in souls
who mirror blue, depth and the sky.