Through the frosted glass window
Draped with plush upholstery
She reckons a green paradise beyond
From the flawed silhouette of a tree
Loneliness she incarnates,
For seclusion is her companion
Solitude she personifies,
And freedom is an illusion
The Mozart of splintering raindrops
The delicate scent of wet clay
The outside summons, she declines
For indoors she must stay
A picturesque world lies somewhere close
Of olive meadows and vines of sweet smelling rose
Of crystal clear ponds laced with shingle
The hope to be where still hasn’t stopped to linger
To follow the trail to nowhere
And tread along the winding riverside
To chase the fleet of birds in the sky
And reach the fields after a tiring stride
To leap over timber fences
And step into puddles on the way
To skip over hurdles of tussocks
And hop into the bed after a tiring day
A ballet with the whirling wind
That rattles the window pane
A tango around that very tree
In the invigorating rain
But in a strong mansion walled against delight
She lay ridden on the bed day after night
The room may be pretty, full of grandiloquence
But her mere presence there, hints of reticence
She gently closes her soft hazel eyes
A tear rolls off and mercilessly dries
She feels within, the freedom of a thousand doves
Even as she lies there anchored to her woes
She paddles with great vigor against the turbulent tides
For the body may wither but the spirit never dies
In search of an unseen miracle to free her from the clutches
Even as she lies there unmoved, as lifeless as her crutches…
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