In the portrait of a mind unsoiled,

freed from tangible sight

Skyward eyes opened embroiled

in her dream alien from contrite.

 

Thought I, of the dreamer

lost to her dream of no repent,

of what sight might keep her

in an escape so eager, so spent.

 

While I spied this flight

the tables and dream I study

Careful not to make dreamer alight,

in her eyes I seek prosody.

 

The memory of the quiet scene

and a dream the only proof

of all that had been

in those days of monsoon.