That window, that room will not breathe again,
It will lie vacant, shrouded in mystery.
But, sometime when it will rain
Someone will see the window by the tree.
He will look past the foliage and never know
The reasons the blinds were shut,
And how someone departed long ago.
Time is after all, a fickle mistress, a slut
As she comes and holds his hand,
The window, the room, gobbled by quicksand.
© Jaspreet Mann
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