grey hour poem

to have known the lazy mote

short quivering dust drawing

letters fruits and tongues on invisible air

when these strangers, lovers

and broken loves waiting for the

train see the speck restless,

there and then, the trance of the path

whose swirl is as elementary

ancient as the nakedness of the sky

a speck who deserves as many words

thoughts and aches

as those we touch and hurt

a mote debonair in air

finds its rest gracefully

like drop of grey symphony

at the base of our feet