Neither dusk nor dawn

finds its way to her room

sun dies an early death here,

squeezed out of its breath

by two facades of buildings,

standing face to face,

but not talking ever.

These claustrophobic chambers,

like forgotten Dagshai cells,

drenched in a sepia hue --

she calls it home.

Sometimes when a beam escapes,

momentarily from its clutches of concrete,

and falls on the parapet,

she cranes her head,

trying to catch the sun,

on her face, eyes and neck.

Laying out her soul,

soaked in a rage less silence,

Like an old book, 

wet and cold,

she tries to store the warmth within,

for the many winters that are yet to come.