Fallen angel

Every morning, an angel waits outside my bedside window. He waits for me to wake up to him. He has a face as handsome as the wood-carvings of the Santhals, hair as golden as the flowing Subarnarekha, eyes as green as the stars of the Orion nebula. His silent, gentle smile signals to me the start of an eternity, an eternity so long that it shall wear out my immortal shoes. An eternity so long that the infinite forest of mango trees shall wither and die, and fill up the vast, empty landscape with the sad fragrance of lost times.
My angel never speaks, for he comes from a world that exists beyond spoken words. For words are ephemeral, momentary, mortal; they metamorphose like ants, they age like leaves, they go past us like idle travellers on summer afternoons. In his own land that is fashioned out of stone and wind and fire, the angel never had any use for things that would die as soon as they are born. And yet when he is with me, in the very presence of my eternal transience, does he not wish to speak?
During the summer rains, when I look out my window, my angel stands all alone across the street, soaked in rain, his wings folded under his arms. And in his eyes is a gentle sorrow that glows softly like a dying lamp. At the corner of his mouth I feel the presence of an unsaid word, which floats upon my dark memories like an honest reassurance, like the breast of a mother that casts a soothing shadow over her sleeping child. I come out of my house, and stand beside the angel in the rain, like a tree beside another, and once more believe in the truth of pain and consolation, of darkness and light, of moments and eternity.