By Ilina Sinha
In my city
of upturned glass buildings
sprouting skyscrapers
and halogen lights through day and night -
my tiny little window
keeps blinking
at the blinding lights
in this bewitching city of mirrors.
Prolonged longing.
Prayers for belonging.
My window gazes quiet
through the falling rain.
At the bent of the road
is a glowing orange streetlight
silent, head-down,
watching hungry streetdogs
and roof-less children.
At the end of the road
is a thousand shimmering windows,
all blinking at each other -
voiceless,
closed-off,
air-conditioned to hold back.
My window knows
it is a lonely world.
That in each of those thousand windows,
is a human caging a shattered soul,
hiding a rock-bottom landmine.
That within each soul is still a window,
desperately protesting to open-up,
longing, praying for belonging,
dreams dwindling.
In my city
of blinking windows
the teardrops no longer fall.
In my city of glass ceilings
the humans are willingly enclosed -
behind closed doors,
within digital screens,
emoticons and voiceless conversations.
Yet, such a piercing desperation
for a human touch!