trying to catch the bright colours,
floating outside the window.
They float by and gradually vanish as white,
white and sometimes black;
is that all about?
Gradually becoming black or white?
I weave colours of my own
and the room loud with its placidness
its depth of truth, loneliness,
hugs me into silence.
The more I love life and its colours,
the more it fills me with truth, loneliness,
and its placid yellow colour.
The room speaks its language;
it’s loud and full
and not like the chaos outside---
for the room has no boundaries,
it has four walls of existence and
they share corners with each other
and together hold the roof---
and I drown in its placid yellow silence.
The room and I, we are not sad;
we are not happy either;
we share silence,
it is bliss;
the face of the house may not
every time reveal the rooms inside
and they may not their occupants
to ordinary eyes,
because we are free birds
just holding on here for time being…