Oft
have I awoken in the fresh morning air
When
the sun has weaved
Her
rays of gold
And
opened the mist-frozen petals with little pools
For
sweet bees to bathe in.
Then
have my eyes seen
Littlest
of the little footprints appear,
As
if from the melting mist –
Little
tiny impressions, so magical
Beneath
my window
That
greets the wide, wide world.
I
have lain long and late
Oblivious
to the creatures
That
have caused them to be there.
But
at times, when the icy winter wind
Has
lashed out steely currents on my face,
I
have heard them whisper –
Sweet,
soft, magical whispers –
That
have ridden on the cold night air
And
carried themselves to me,
In
vain my eyes have searched them
Beneath
mulberry and rose,
For
some hidden path to fairy folk,
A
path to fairyland.
In
vain have I searched and asked young eyes
Questions
fancied from the thoughts of silken footprints.
And
all eyes, yes all
Have
laughed vaguely, sneeringly
Some
even sad and caught in a haze –
Eyes
that have told the sad tale
Of
a fairyland that exists no more.
And
yet have I seen them lie lifeless –
Tinkling,
shimmering, almost fading into the moonlight,
That
have melted from the mist,
Enclosed
in the Sun’s first golden threads,
Fall
softly – ever so silently –
There,
right where the window opens,
Letting
in the wind from beneath the mulberry
And
the breeze that lies nestled in oblivion
Beneath
the wild, wild, rose.
Zeenat N
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