Dust on my fingers

As I recreated the shadows
of the cupboard near the window
I heard the rhythm of the rain,
Felt the sciamachy of the winds.
How the sun peeped through the holes
Casting its net on the non-living souls.
The lacuna of my life which
was stranded in that cupboard
Screamed to me.
To be touched, loved and restored.
I lifted a book
And stared at its cover
Like a long, forgotten lover
Caressed the whelve in it
I reminisced its smell
And it felt like I breathed
For the first time in years.
The sticky pages were conceiving tears,
The dust at its corners
emigrated to my fingers,
to which they once belonged.
The smile came back
that I had left on
page two hundred forty seven
when finally the war was over
As I redestroyed the shadows
Of the cupboard near the window
I heard the rhythm of the rain
And I glanced at the dust
on my finger, that will now remain
There, even if I'm washed off
By this rain.

-Chanchal Bagla