To walk through cobwebbed stale perfume
Of biscuits stood up on their dates,
And hear the ghosted furniture
Complaining to refugee rats.
To strain against the stubbornness
Of flaking bolts on shuttered storms,
Secure in rusted couplings hinged
On termite-eaten memory.
To strum again forgotten strings
In corners of undusted hearts
And watch the whirling Sufi motes
Ascend the grace of filtered dawn.
Minakhi Misra 