The wet soil in the terracotta tub is cold when I touch my fingers,
The water collected at the feet of the basil is like a small pond.
I pour out the kettle and pour out the light rain,
The small melody of bathing plays on the leaves.
The sound of the pressure cooker in the distance, the call to prayer nearby,
The sound of old songs on the neighborhood radio.
My slippers become soft with water,
The pigeons settle the gray evening across the railing.
I take a minute of silence out of my pocket,
I count my breath, one, two, and the color changes on its own.
The raw air mixes with the strong tea in the cup,
The simple map of life is drawn in the steam.
The wet words of the day dry on the rope of light,
I wrap up the excess part of the noise.
The trees nod their heads gently before the night falls
Today, the city becomes quiet because of the slow pace.
0.684 SRY