The dark corridor,
which connects the bed near sunset
and the well-lit Christmas tree at Sunrise,
is my library.
The half-read books reek of arrogance,
today they exude the scent of rain,
winter rain,
whose drops tease me
at the window,
urge me to play musical chairs...
If only I was my daughter,
or I were my father,
I would oblige.
I am neither old, nor young,
just perfect to be
trapped amongst dusty books,
uncertain at sunset,
jittery about sunrise.
-- Leslie
