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Standing by the window
Brushing her freshly washed hair
Shakuntla would sometimes tie it in a ponytail
Or let it loose over her shoulders;
Occasionally she would, when in mood
Tie it neatly in a ribbon and bow
Above her head.
Her feathered, pigeon-toed friends watch her
Walking leisurely, sometimes dancing
On the narrow window ledge
Recently painted to a smooth satin finish
Their balance immaculate, their claws
Giving them a firm grip
With no hint of fear in their eyes.
They would knock on the window
Drawing Shakuntla’s attention
While doing the Amapola in unison;
A bravura mid-morning performance
Enlivened by the taps on the windowpane
With their beaks.
And Shakuntla would watch, mouth open
Wishing she was with them
One of their very own.
Across the window, the tower is taking shape
Brick by brick, floor by floor, a rounded edifice
Reaching towards the sky, relentless.
She is fearful of this distraction
Of the inherent danger to her friends
Turning round, craning their necks upwards
And still higher
Towards the soaring tower
And the vastness of space beyond it;
The final frontier.
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