Her lambs sometimes come Grazing the tender maize In my field. My sparrows go to her courtyard To feed on Jowar grains. And that's how in stories We meet. Her caste is low and mine Is high- The chasm between Our streets are parallel lines That never meet- elders say. But why the moon on her roof Sometimes sneaks from The broken tile to steal a Glance on my behalf? And the stars from her dreams Lead me into a cosmic trance To make believe in things that Are not obvious and otherwise? And when songs late-night, Carry a tinge of her aroma- A considerate definition of Those parallel lines get to me- Where they tend to meet at Infinity.