The man sits in his shop with a pair of glassy eyes.He has no time to fix a see-through window-glass that is deeply in love with the sun in our kitchen.The pane sits there tight ,basking in the sun’s glow .Our women love the sun but not when making tea.
There are trees in the pane waving in the wind.Their birds chirp at dawn, their speckled throats heaving up and down, as we calmly eat breakfast.It is not winter yet and the fog is yet to blind its eyes. Later when the sun turns angry, he will beat it down ,on its smoothness of cheeks ,gate-crashing kitchen,invading our women’s privacy as they make our tea. And the gas-flame will lose its blue face in the glare. It looks like the pane has to embrace its dark night.