Sing me back to beaches

In the monsoon,

I walked colonised streets

trying to befriend a city,

forged fields and bright street lights,

they often vanished inside my eyes

to see happy children on beaches;

glass ceilings shattering to find a sky,

that broke down abruptly

to weep on my shoulders.

I swam in the rain

only to meet those children at the beach.

They roofed me under white curtains,

for the Witch might try to grab me,

plait my hair

and take me back

 to her hall of circus.

Every flower,

every breeze,

every wounded bird in a city

are part of a folklore

where minstrels live,

they all sing me-

back to beaches.