Neeru

The dried yellowed leaf, Disowned by the rigid tree, Still dream of the green, Of the roots and seed. Brown was all around, Or to put it right it was black, But the leaf still saw green, Inside out all dreamy green.

Everything is dirty, No matter you keep, Wiping with mop, Or wash it away with water. It keeps coming back, Mumbling grudging, Haunting the house, With its all-swarming presence. The books on the shelf, Are all dusty again, Like

The perfume bottle was once, Filled with colourful liquid, Lying down on the dressing table, It once had a life of its own. Now seems empty with empty hopes, Lying down without colour and light, That coloured perfumed water, Vanished