Imprints

Some imprints of green leaves

fall on white walls, 

some sideways beams of sunshine

peep through clump of leaves,

some ripe fruits swing with the wind

on beamy branches

some flocks fly

and make the circles in the sky

as garlands in free necks. 

Humming comes from a honeycomb 

hanging on a jasmine branch 

in an open courtyard drenched in love

it’s not a collage 

it’s a motion-picture 

dancing in my eyes

seeking to restore the lost images

imprinted on the twigs of my love 

in a forlorn corner of a concrete block

I wish in my sweet-dream

the goddess of wisdom were playing 

a blissful note on her harp,

but in my worried nap

murmurs of oblivion are mocking 

the dew-drops of harmony 

descending from the sky

here, restoration is like a rebirth - 

a miracle on the bosom of nature,

a feeling that there’s a soul, 

a fresh breath in a tired town.

My eyes always crave 

for such a motion-picture 

for me and my love

someone has told me

there’s an angel in my busy block;

he’ll broadcast the motion picture

through the orifices of sleepy windows.

Then the songs of nightingales will mop

the dusty floors of our town,

till the advent of the auspicious day,

I’ll be roaming with imprints 

of green leaves falling 

on the white walls of my eyes.