The Hospital Window
The hospital window has a view of the sky, the same sky where birds venture
soaring high, the clear blue sky greets those gypsy white clouds. Yesterday,
it rained heavily. Incessant rain has a lonesome dream, some are able to
touch the dream, some are not quite there, ever.
Pure white has sometimes a feeling, too obscure, too vague. White roses
are blessed with fragrance and white Kafan has a language of coldness.
Death has a deep voice, very personal, very destructive. No story should
enter at a point of death, but sometimes, only that is what happens. The
stories of life are sometimes stranger than fiction, more obvious, as the
waves shatter into the sands of the beach. It takes time to sustain the
blow, it takes time to heal the wound.
I never knew if you had a pain of the color of white, I never knew if you
had a pain of the color of red inside you. It is much too difficult to
decipher those colors of pain, the effort only made everything hazy, as
tears blur the vision inside those heavy spectacles.
And I tried to wipe those spectacles, with an apparent face of indifference.
A gesture of emotionless expressions, somewhere between naivety and
wisdom.
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