When people die, you travel
to meet them for a last time.
The road becomes a metaphor
and the sky speaks of infinity.
You realize the link between
Time and travel, and fading distances
You look up from your window seat
And decode patterns of clouds in frantic collage.
and separated, like distant lands.
The disheveled curls and the wind
On your face, take you
to the backyards of yesteryears.
Laughter, evenings, jasmines
Smell of home, mother, incense
The swing, the heights, your nights
and the early hour designs.
Sleeps on the ground,
Cross, like a child wanting toffee.
A body, tied up in parts
to check further flights of fancies.
You join the race of withdrawal symptoms,
and the assembly of crows.
The last wish remain, so do void
As armchair and that spot in your living room.