As I sit, door open, mind open,
in my room, untidy, as mornings;
I hear voices unnoticed in time.
Crumbles of straw beneath ignorant feet,
brooms sweeping by the adjacent floors,
ignorant of the dirt so real, so within.
And I am watching my shoes, hither-tither;
saying out; someone lives here, one who
went out the night before, jolly; came tired.
And again I feel someone walking past,
the lobe of my right ear; approaching me
but then the steps go past, not visiting.
I hear plenty of them, all at once,
but only a few are expressive, rest ignorant;
the ones that speak, do it profound.
Coming around, taking a halt or not,
it matters none; what matters is they speak,
to me some way, making me happy.
© Rajat Mahajan. 2010