At a crossing..

At a crossing, near the old Banyan tree, as the traffic goes sour,
On my windows clean, tiny hands would rest, a face would conjure.

Nails ridden with dirt, face with dust, hair unkempt and clothes messy,
Disgust they would, my body would shrivel and my eyes would stare and not see.

Rains would anguish and the winds would distress – that face would not relent,
I wished it disappear, why me, should the face torment?

Then one day, at a crossing, near the old Banyan tree,
Hands would not rest, face not conjure and my window empty.

My soul choked in repent; ponder why, for the sight I detested to discern,
At a crossing, near the old Banyan tree, for that face – I now yearn.