Slower is the dense air of a single dead room

Photo by Kevin Ianeselli on Unsplash

The red hues often enchant the souls of people. At the romance of day and night. When even on Sundays, the day slows down after an efficient time of the noon.

Birds listen to each other talk. A chiselling machine cuts the rock. Leaves, though, do not move. What are they waiting for?

The curtains do dance, though, by the side of a main road. Anticipations run high. Like a distant dream coming true. A smile upon the face. Slowness. Did you say slowness? No.

Slower was the dense air of a single dead room. Filled with dark, scary ghosts. It is … more open. The skin can feel the air. The ears can feel sound. Eyes can feel colors of the sun. On a Sunday. A new birth.

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The poem juxtaposes the two places where I live. One is a room with windows in Himachal surrounded by fields and houses being built, and another — a room that has no windows, in Delhi.