Nothing happens in mornings in window.
A fat cat is not licking the window’s glass
Nor do breakfast plates rattle basement.
Housemaids do not sprout in area gates.
All this and much else, not being of faces,
No smiles vanish on roofs below eye level.
Poet is not here to sniff a dirt-city’s smog
And still the world goes on or about a sun.
No roots clutch and nor branches do grow.
Son of man is sleeping behind the window
And beyond window is nothing but a wall,
A complete piece of blankness of senses.
Wall is filled with a blankness to senses.
The big world may be going on beyond it.
Son of man is warm in a blanket of sleep
And let the fucking world go on outside.
(remembering T.S.Eliot’s poem “Morning at the window”)