For how many hundreds of centuries
have I not seen
the image of your face
nor searched for it.
The search for the face
by the dust-settled window panes
in the gold-rimmed orb
of the scorching sun went on
the flittering gaze
of a blue-bottle fly
from here to there.
The aroma in those
lost tragedies, over-arched
in rainbow-hued glass panes,
surprisingly short lived,
raw mangoes in oil
sharp and salty with a twang.
Those memories never rested
from toil – sauntering in
the brisk sun – adding to the
plight of an incessant thirst.
