Every day to the east of my soul,
The window opens with a whirl of a windy crush,
The curtains not pink and lacy,
Give nothing away but a space where you could lean in,
And peep into my soul that’s been saved.
It is worn out and red with all the blood that’s been pumped out to it,
I wonder why it is 63,
My soul is dilly dallying to the sound of the banana leaves,
And conspiring with the ecstasy, of all the things it will never be.
But who is the window to my soul, to forever see?
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