High

They told us- India looks this way
And Europe looks like that- but
How does one decide their shapes?
Does one stand atop high buildings-
And draw what they see below them?
I’m standing on the seventeenth floor-
And the shape of this city isn't clear to me.
The tall cross and clock stare at me,
While there are higher buildings to stand on.

Tell me- you were always the smarter one
If I stand there- will it be visible to me?
Or should I jump down- onto the unyielding floor
Till the unrelenting wretch of a Time passes me by?
Till blurs of several colours become heads-
And bodies and souls- and then blur again.
You were tall. Could you from your
Mighty height make out the shapes of towns
Is that why you were good with roads
Even when you let me guide you? Could you
Also make out people from that high?
Is that why you left me- were my bays too deep?
Or were the lands too soft and uneven?

Tell me-just this much. How high do I
Have to be- to just distinguish you- just you
In this ocean of blurred bokeh- with my
Fogged out eyes spewing brine? And will you
If you ever see me coming, with your height-
Towards you with outstretched arms,
Take me back again? Or would you be lost again?

I guess I am just high.