Afterwards, I shall be a mote swirling at your window,
Without a breath, or a heartbeat, ringing at your window.
Noon has stumbled through the half-wicked buildings,
Like a blemish upon the wooers singing at your window.
Withering are the curses that are uttered in the bazaar,
To the weaver of the drapery swinging at your window.
Choking under the mist of unforgiven prayers,
My religion is a candle blinking at your window.
Uma, I’ll be the flurry at the fork of the fortnights,
Without a shaft or a feather, winging at your window.