My books had gathered dust
Even the floor looked unclean
How long have I been sleeping?
The ceiling was not white, I remember it was when I had last said good night
What was I missing and what went out of sight?
I sure haven’t been sleeping this long
To wake up to fine particles of dust song
Though they were rhythmically in tune
I didn’t have much reasons to fume
They weren’t going off sync or hitting my lungs
The particles were instead building up their own world, bit by bit, crust by crust
I wish I had been a witness to the first particle of dust, the very first one
At least I could trace their genealogy long after they were cleaned and gone
I guess no one will ever tell me when and how the first particles rose to fame
Over my books, my chair and even my photo frames
Hang on! Their clusters hardly look the same
Does that mean they have preferences too? On who to cover and who not to?
Ahh! Why would I talk to the dust?! They can’t speak! Can they?!
Maybe I should listen! Perhaps they would ring in their patterned stories to me in some way or other.