Waiting with wakefulness
Native to only night, in hours before daylight,
Alights her cold fingers, in practised mindlessness
On the ashes at her feet, where she had spent the night.
To a bored traveller, up a morn earlier than those that sing
This sight of her fingers, bewitched him to complete submission
Chipped nail polish of a colour, she would reproduce in every succeeding painting,
He beheld, in stark contrast to the ashes, of the fire the night before, another rendition.
When the first light seeped in unwanted, blue and white
The elements dissolved, blurred beauty now plain, old wretch
Registering grief, coming out of shock, she stirred ever so slightly, he was appalled to see the sight
Of but a woman, a miserable woman, in the bosom of a burnt house, in this desolate stretch,
Where neither human nor humanity ever did corrupt
With fragrant vapours of rotting corpses
That’s where she lives, up , up and up
And the traveller, understood.
And the traveller, moved on.