Here

                                 Here

Here, I visit everyday 
And more often than not,
I wish to transfigure, 
into that wooden chair,
this table, or even a leaf
that's here to stay...

The lamps light up,
when the light is scanty.
I know,
For many evenings have I spent here.
The lamps have aged along with this place,
And so have I,
wishing to be molded into their frame...

The floor is concealed,
By the mango flowers,
That we  dust off our
shoulders on an autumn day
They seem to clamber back on the branches
For I have to pluck them off my hairs
The very next day...

A wooden windchime
Hangs on our old mango tree,
it swings at times,
But no sound have I heard.
Nevertheless, it's younger than the tree
And my old soul,
Which pays hommage to it's silver bells
That sometimes, 
grace me with a glimpse...
from amidst those branches...

Is it absurd..
You tell me,
If I wish to be molded 
Into that lamp or the tree.
For I wish to stay here,
as long as forever!

And so, here's a request
Would you be so kind,
To pour me into that lamp frame
Or hide me in one of those branches,
like that windchime that momentarily glances?