Innumerable, spotless windows
give way to red wine sofas,
shelves of curious Siddharthas
and indomitable Quixotes.
The warm dimness of the passageways
is a series of wooden mines
where the light within mossy pages
awaits to be unleashed.
Kamala sits expectantly,
her womb aching for streams of honeycomb,
and dreams of technicolor exuberance
wantonly desire the burnt grass plains of Spain.
At the far end of the musty hall
a lonely bewitched pair of eyes
flutters away from a million worlds and suns
back into the dull sound of rain.