My own empty rooms, I'm unable to
See. Unable to stick a broom to clean.
Flickers of light that refuse to reach
And I never know what's there or
What's not lurking?
Someone comes along sometimes
To open a couple of them,
Switch on the lights and sweep them
Clean and ask for matchsticks to
Prepare tea.
Years back there was a late-night party
In a couple of them.
The smokey smell of a campfire
Still remains but has been left
Unattained ever since.
These places without people are
Handicapped geographical coordinates
It seems. The numbness here grows
Shouting the absence of human touch,
So that no ship and compass
Can ever reach.
But the dried-up rivers show up to
Salvage their tragedies somehow.
And return in pity after seeing
The cataclysm that's already brewing.