At the end of all dusty aisles,
beneath rooftops that rattle
under cursory monsoon raindrops
behind curtains, by window-panes,
there’s a holy bubble, its space reserved
for all misfits and lunatics in disguise.
From their windows,
they gaze inside the dust.
the dust never settles,
neither does the scrutiny.
Sometimes it even takes forever.
But these loons listen to the wind
from inside their small-big bubble
that they wrap themselves with-
in mist at morning, at noons scorching.
they observe the colors of air
and as it howls and growls,
they chase all the clouds away.