criminals

let there be music. and the trees ought to be green, the fields too. the skies a clear blue. and let the skies wear that look they often do before they pour forth their frustrations, not dark clouds and on the verge of depression, but in that mood of contemplation, when they are still clear blue, the facade so and yet will water down very soon. and let the winds blow. a light, gentle one, blowing my hair into my faces so you can tidy it for me, draw it to the behind of my ears and look into my eyes to see your pretty face. or let it be that i am looking into your eyes that hold the moon. the skies then a velvety blanket, with silver specks. and let there be lots of those silver specks, shining on for you and me. and then i shall look into your heart, without wearing these black-rimmed glasses, and i shall tell you what i feel.
in this room we have come to, climbing those steep flight of stairs, each step covered with dirt and disease, and the corners all reddened (no, not by the red we both love, but by wasted betel nuts), and both of us looking down and then glancing up to see where this patterned secrecy is leading us. to this room whose door creaks and the latch threatens our little secret, our crime. and on a bed, the linen of which is stained by the woes of men and women who came before us, all of them in a hurry to unburden a part of themselves, to prove this point but behind closed doors, priced at Rs 200 a night. i don't see the reflections in your eye, the quivering of your lips, but i have seen well the spiders scurrying in and around their cobwebs and lying in wait for their prey, i can see the dirty fan going round and round, with its monotonous croaking, and though it goes on and on it still cannot wipe the nervousness we are drenched in. i can see the plaster peeling off the walls, i can see the men and women who were here before us, fear and victory fleeting through their eyes and limbs, all of us doing all that has been done before, nothing new, and each of us thinking it were new, and so near to the meaning we seek in the busy streets down the closed window. i then see no skies, no waters, no greens. i only see parts of you, not whole, and a you so untrue to your self. i want to tell you to stop, to tell you this will come to nothing, that there is no meaning and pleasure this reeking bed and room will give us. but yet we go on, performing meaningless acts, hurting each other and then all tired we run down the flight of steps, me first and you following to impress upon the accountant, for whom we really care not, that we care not for each other. and then i wait at the turn of this narrow street while you settle the bill, and emerging like a criminal. no, i cannot here tell you. never can i tell you in this dry room of acrobats and their gimmicks what i feel. i will never be able to say, " keep this - my soul". and, even if i did, this monotonous fan will drown out my voice, just as it does our panting nervousness, our whining helplessness, this petty crime of ours.