Hanging from the attic
they have heard it:
the muffled laughter
of the high-born lass,
lusty gasps,
sobs of poor maids,
the sweeper cursing
for dirtying the floor.
In dark insides
of the run-down inn:
sounds of foot taps-
limping memories.
Night for nobody,
rats running amuck.
A stray beggar
fights them for a sleep.
Outside household,
from the ancient mango tree:
they hear a robber moving sly.
On the palm fronts
hiding from moon beams
night stalkers are on prowl.
From that greasy rose apple tree
at city outskirts
they have seen a lot:
night of the pedophile
under the crumbling bridge,
decaying female life
of the street walker,
shady deals of
fast buck harvest,
blood of the slaughtered.
Transcending sea-roars
of witnessing
baby face bats ceased
talking to humans.
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