I stood in an empty room
but couldn’t find sun rising,
air flowing, rains falling,
winds blowing, sands flying,
leaves drying, birds singing,
moon sinking, stars falling,
children weeping, girls singing.
I still wait.
So does the room, though it
has become more empty,
more matured for, it has learnt
that it’s wait would never end.
And it solaces it.
It calms it.
I stood in an empty room
waiting for the frozen emotions
to defrost,
for silent music to wander like
unbridled streams,
for trembling edges to firm up
their exactitude,
for tranquilized sadness to melt
slowly.
I still hope to wait.
So does the room.
Empty, though it is.
It has an unshakable faith in
it’s own emptiness, in it’s own
invincibility, in it’s own recesses.
The attractiveness of hollowness that
lives with me throughout there,
enchants me, befuddles me, coaxes me,
telling me interruptedly
that there are many other rooms more
empty than this room.
Why?
Can it be so?
Yes.
Because the ones in those rooms are
more emptied than the rooms.