From the clouds


As I looked down through the oval window            
Endless fields lay in quiet green patches       
Intervened by brown 
           
A slender silvery spark winding through
Caught my eyes- which tributary was it?
Can I know by the sense it evoked in me?
           
No, I can’t!    
 I need landmarks to identify!           
This is the city’s gift to me!
           
Does the sense come back when we become formless,         
When gravity ceases to hold? or else,
 How would Baba come back home?
           
As I looked down through the tiny window             
The mourning stopped when I thought         
I was taking my Baba home. 
           
-Poem by Indira Mukherjee- 

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