The woods beyond my window are silently watching me.
Tall, old trees, wearing a wise-look, are keeping
an account of my days, my face by the window.
I know because I heard them whispering this to the
unknown flock of birds resting under their shades.
I saw the manila grasses asking the flirty butterfly
to pass the message to the whistling wind, which in turn
came rushing to my window trying to peep inside.
They don’t know that, sitting behind the window, I’m watching them too.
My room is filled with dust of quarantined breathes upto the ceiling.
The ceiling is painted in white, the absolute white,
giving up all other colours.
In the walls, covered by shadows of uncertainties and helplessness,
the time is crawling like a snail from one moment to another.
The woods are watching me.
I’m watching the woods.
The window between us is tightly holding the frilled curtain of time.
A different difficult time.
With time, I’m able to spot few known birds among the unknown flock.
I know, soon one of them will start singing the song of good times.
I know, soon I will walk into the woods again.