The Storm

I am marooned with my own solitude 

Inside a room with air smells of onion

Late evening just walks by

Tiptoe and quietly 

Shadows of night creep in

Encroaching as I can go nowhere

Indoor has never been my space

But the storm has finally arrived

In fading light rains yell 

At a blood-curdling pitch

And wind lashes its bullwhips

In the vacant room, I am 

stranded by its frigid hollowness

As the cook stirs the boiling onion soup

My guide huddles in a dim corner

Physically I am sitting by the window

My soul already drifts away

Far out into the breathing wilderness 

Above the weighty clouds

Shimmying among looming trees

Listening to the murmurs of fallen leaves

Intimate rubs among the slender twigs

Imperceptible signs about being alive

Cryptic riddles to be solved 

Alas, it's only a fantasy of mine

I am still very here 

A prisoner of liquid coldness

Could hardly move a finger 

And night ominously spreads its wings

Wide apart above my head 

Waiting to pounce

When the rain finally stops

(At Pitam Deurali)