Grazing the tender maize
In my field.
My sparrows go to her courtyard
To feed on Jowar grains.
And that's how in stories
We meet.
Her caste is low and mine
Is high- The chasm between
Our streets are parallel lines
That never meet- elders say.
But why the moon on her roof
Sometimes sneaks from
The broken tile to steal a
Glance on my behalf?
And the stars from her dreams
Lead me into a cosmic trance
To make believe in things that
Are not obvious and otherwise?
And when songs late-night,
Carry a tinge of her aroma-
A considerate definition of
Those parallel lines get to me-
Where they tend to meet at
Infinity.
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