The window-pane

The man sits in his shop with a pair of glassy eyes.
He has  no time to fix a see-through window-glass 
That is deeply in love with the sun in our kitchen.
The pane sits there tight ,basking in the sun's glow .
Our women love the sun but not when making tea.

There are trees in the pane  waving in the wind.
Their birds chirp  at dawn, their speckled throats
Heaving up and down, as we calmly eat  breakfast.
It is not winter yet ; the fog is yet to blind its eyes.

Later when the sun turns angry, he will beat it down
On its smoothness of cheeks ,gate-crashing in kitchen
Invading our women's privacy as they make our tea
And the  gas-flame will lose its blue face in the  glare.
It looks like the  pane has to embrace its dark night. 
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