The day arrives with its pretty might, br Romps around like a pampered queen, br Taps running, women praying, children crying, br Land tilling, the light in my house filling br Should i tell you about these or the unfolded sheets? br The colours of the wet clothes hung to dry br How they sway ever so slow, or about the br Broken black handle of my pot, or shall I tell you br About the chilly that eagerly got into my eyes, br Then the tears that spilled in all different sizes, br And the remedy my maid began to advice br The breakfast that slipped br A bowl of milk, cornflakes in the hall br The delighted pup that licked it all br Or should I tell you how br When in hurry I told the flowers br About you today they turned their head in delight, br They, the scents in the turmeric and the whites in the marble br Your praise they did despise, br The little girl around the corner selling flowers, br She smiled at me knowingly, what about her? br As the day slowly leaves yawning into the twilight, br It is not the day I dread but the longing night br With my sleepy eyes rubbed and the kajal smudged br Unkempt hair falling on the drooping shoulder, br The rumbling house now quite and in these hours, br I look for you, my incoherent muse, my comfort br Lap to lay my bleary head on and found none br And this long, shredded, rainless night only just begun br All this and a little more, what shall I tell you?br br Reshma Rameshbr br