as the cacti on my window sill
keeps turning towards the sun
the very source of her growth
to grow with bentness and flowering
my soul too yearns
for your invisible presence
to be intoxicated
and also distorted
early morning i seek your face
in the ancient word
the lees and scum
my ancestors have left behind
and as i step out of my door
i feel your formless feature
in every neighbour i encounter
or consciously ignore
settling down in the evening
confidently i say, what matters
is not my seeing, but being seen
by that one who watches my night
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