It is winter
No sound cuts through the
ceiling fan, unmoving by its blades
wheezing the house
All lonely, wide of eyes
It looks down upon
its past beneficiaries:
The sweating men,
The mid day school children,
Mother and perspiring wife, and
The summer guest;
Now are cuddles together
inside coldness of the house
Only a stray thought
Churning deeper inside
Come to grip the ceiling fan –
What is existentialism
But a seasonal upturn
To be free, and
Not to revolve
But to be with the switch
Sartre and its choice of freedom
What a beautiful personification of the lonely unused fan in winters.loved the poem
So much thanks Nalini Srivastava ji.
A fan-centred philosophical poem.A delighted read.
So much thanks dear Sir Vijay Nair ji.