Sitting close to the window,
Washing the field from afar,
In healing the breeze to our heart content,
Thinking of what the next one hour will look like
Then it dawned on us how yesterday looks like,
The same sound from the moving leaves,
The uncountable bird in the sky,
The shout from the mother calling her child,
The face of the father in his silent thought of our the day hustle will look like,
The walking step of the girls heading to their regular spot where they draw water,
The sound of milk-siblings heading towards their mother with their eyes full of tears drawing from their stomach,
The sound of the crowd walking in different directions with a hole on their face on how to cash up with their day to day activities.
Then the offloading thought came in…
Was it the spot?
Was it the day?
Or everyday just look the same?
Then the poet tends to answer the question. It was not the day neither does everyday look the same but the spot that comes with the thought of planning what the next one hour will look.
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