The stairway is dusty,
as the road is dusty too.
The trees rise, majestic—
You could bossom yourself
within the wide, embracing boughs.
´Nice to have an ice cream with you,
oh, my Neighbour God!´
Through the foliage of the towering tree,
within your gaze, a tower Clock
and a dwelling where a God is resting now.
Who would have told you, years ago,
when far away,
that you would love those trees so much
you’d christen the street
‘Tagore Street’…
and, in that quiet act,
become a godmother
and one who would not escape a cage,
but would escape her—
the one who snatches birds mid-air.
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