She doesn’t float,
but the water and the world around her move
to justify her movements.

I observe bleakly, like a child observing snow.
Those brown eyes, the red beak.
of how could it exist:
In a timeline,In our timelines,
We briefly intersect each other’s life
and now she is inside my head with those eyes.

The nights turn to days,
the days turn to sentences.
I greet her everyday.
She becomes a prayer for an atheist.
A Song for the voiceless.
A Dance for crippled.

Would she be thinking same?
as I observe her even now?
Why?
Why not?

Is this a swan song?
Let her answer all.
Let her answer none.
The eyes speak for those who have learn to observe.
Let me observe.

SB