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.
Stinging are the curses that are uttered in the bazaar,
For weaving the gossamer, now 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.