The Writer

Sparrows twittering beside the bedside window. Young lads in their teens, playing with kites. A god riding his elephant, overlooking the work in progress. The work was to curve out a creature, a human. Faint music from a sarod, setting the stage for a maestro. Is there a story, my dear? Will the writer put pen to paper or wait for another harvest?
The writer is meditating.

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