Thatha's old alarm clock. On the floor,

Beside an empty bed, it lay shrilling,

Each beat resounding loudly off the walls.

I didn't hear it from inside the bathroom,

Where cold water surged through pipes

And blocked out the outside. It wasn't much

To wake up to, that morning, and

Eventually, the ringing subsided. Stopped,

Dead in its tracks, as the coconut trees

Along the balcony had. With no wind,

There was no movement, almost no sound.

This is what I stepped into, what a two-minute

Shower left me with. Nothing, save purity.

An eerie cleanliness, that spread itself

Across the floors and reminded of

Blank pages, similar to this. What happened

Were only events to fill the emptiness

And create. In a way,

It was the alarm clock that called for creation,

While all along, we craved it.