There is dust

And grime on the silver,

Polished glass and on the walls,

Of the room in which it is

Forcefully fitted.

It is saying it’s own story.

I tried to clear that dust,

Which were the proofs of my silent absence,

From the affairs of this world,

But couldn’t.

I stood in front of it,

And now my soul was transparent,

I saw,

All those things, which were inside me.

A very low decibel voice came,

If I can live with so much dirt,

With so much comfort,

Then why can’t this piece of glass?


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