Thursday, March 19, 2009

Poem: From My Window

When I'm happy I can see
the hills from my window.
At night I see the moon,
in the upper left one-third,
like an artist's painting.

During glum times, all I perceive
are the slums below stretching
to the hills--
the normalcy of poverty,
decades of living
with no water supply.

I sit and look down, somehow guilty,
from my cement-glass matchbox,
in a high-rise building,
expensive property
that'll take decades to really own.

I am fortunate,
I tell myself,
closing one eye to mask
the electricity tower outside with
the middle of my window.
Choosing to see the hills,
though the vegetation be roasted
a dull brown.

I pick up my colours,
I paint the scene,
Impressionist fashion, without the details
that make me wonder
about life and its purpose,
the balance and the justice,
and other things
with no answers.


spriya said...

I loved this poem .. it was even better cause you put that picture there :)

Deepika said...

i loved the style... it captures the emotion quiet well