Old rag picker leaning on a stick,
She bends over the desk.
Her spine curves itself:
Reed giving in to the wind,
She bows to a new Deity-
The White Page.
Black curls cover her face.
Crimson tip of her slim fingers
Push back the silken net.
Her diamond pendant touches the desk,
(Like flowers at the feet of a Goddess)
And as the reed again stands straight,
The gleaming ornament flutters back
To the black of her blouse,
Like a fire-fly in the midst of dark night.
Globe revolving around the sun,
She turns her head, looks around.
Kajal-butterfly eyes search for nectar,
And settle down on the white Goddess.
She stares at the blank page in front of her:
A portrait that ran away from its frame.
Fifteen eye-blinks later,
Whispers amble in her ears.
She grabs her pen
With the zeal of a young man
Throwing himself over his lover.
Like ants ravaging a lump of sugar,
Blue alphabets violate the virginity of the page;
Like Arachne weaving a new attire,
A new work of art is stitched upon the page.