I was waiting to go home at 8 am,

stepping aimlessly over

the left-over dirt and stones  

in the courtyard that was raised because  

the inner lanes had to be raised because 

the municipal roads had been raised—  

it was the busyness of a city

keeping itself in shape,

leaving me breathless, 

with my eyes to the ground,

until— 

the gates were taken out

to be raised,

opening a tiny window

in which I hesitate 

before stepping out into the lane

like an inmate tasting her first lick

of forgotten freedom, as if  

the gates had kept me locked in

all this while, as if  

I didn’t belong

on the open Earth outside,

any time  I pleased,

for no reason at all but that I was alive 

the frangipani flowers lay

thick and white on the ground

with their sunny hearts open, 

I imagine them floating gracefully

off the tree,  which had let them go

under a silent half-moon,  

which lingers even now

above lazy splashes of white,

a brilliant sun shining above us all  

in an endless blue sky,

all of them whispering— 

you are in this soft beauty.