Tired of tired fingers, turning its pages again.
An old, open novel, fanned down on my chest in disdain,
As tired eyes, sought oasis in the desert of boredom,
I scoured the world, through the halved window of my train.
Ten and two hours’d tired me, yet I had more time to kill.
I’d even used all bits of paper to clean out the window sill.
And then it came, like a fresh breath of fragrant air.
And even in the melee of a moving train, time seemed to stop still.
Poets often say, a thing of beauty, is joy forever.
But if anything ever gave joy to beauty, it had to be her.
I pinched myself, saw an angel in blue, walking right towards me,
A funny new feeling engulfed, felt like a Summer Sun in December.
Like clear sparkling water, that rushes down a splendid ravine,
Like a new tender leaf swaying in the breeze of God’s design.
She came and sat herself on that vacant seat before me
No language had a synonym of beauty that could match her form divine.
My tired, slouching body, found an excuse to sit up straight.
That old, open novel, sprang up to a sprightly life before my face.
The top edge of my book, would have never had this much of eye time,
Pity, I forgot those reading glasses, on my head which were placed.
Day turned to night, and then night turned back to day.
I stayed a silent admirer, but not a word did she say.
She looked straight at me sometimes, and made me weak at the knees.
God’d been unfair to her, He must’ve took ages to make her this way.
And then like how she’d come, she was gone in a flash.
Feeling her way through the compartment, holding her father’s hands.
I stood there shocked, muted, I wanted so much to say.
She’d left her Braille books behind, but she’d taken my breath away.