The Damsel On The Windowsill

By Vipul Sehgal

A river of people in the street,

every nook and corner did they fill.

Hustling, bustling, rustling, jostling,

half of them just out of the mill.

Through which I roved and shoved and scampered,

is when the moment of magic happened,

when by turn of fate or happenstance,

my gaze fell on that windowsill.

Sitting there, a few paces off,

as serene a face you'd come across.

For millennia even you could behold,

still drenched in awe, still at a loss.

Struck by it seems a thunderbolt,

being held fast by what I behold,

wouldn't be colouring would that I say,

a slight peace in legions chaos.

She reads a book, her head bowed,

utterly engrossed absent doubts.

I wonder the tale on those pages

to inspire the tranquil rivalling sages.

Perhaps a fable of innocent love,

undying yet incomplete;

or a whole encompassing saga

where all desires come to meet.

Maybe a feature by a preacher

which got lucky for her regard;

or is it a song pure pacific

sung eons ago by a holy bard.

I craved to stay but I balked,

I didn't move and yet I walked.

But the damsel's primo pious face,

upon my mind and soul was locked.

Now much time has flown by, yet

she forms a memory so profound,

to those sprinkling moments long ago

my heart is, perhaps, forever bound.

In the incessant hours now and then

her irenic guise astounds me still,

the girl I'd forever remember as-

the damsel on the windowsill.

By Vipul Sehgal