WRITING OUT
With every breath I draw
white clouds of silence
return to claim the cold;
I hurry through the watching night,
my fists wombed in unwarmed pockets
my eyes stealing glances with the dark
my heart a thousand miles away.
Others pass me by, in twos and threes,
Laughter warms them while I freeze.
The flat is warm, and so's the food I make
knitting well those further hours
and writing bravely through the night
my soul a thousand miles away.
~Shreekumar Varma~
(scotland,
march 11, 2004)
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