It blows softly through a transient heaven in my heart. It brings the smell of soap-suds. Portrait of a nude damsel gets visible on mind’s canvas. Soon it brings the fragrance of incense smoldering in a prayer room. I sin and purge myself in the same breeze. As I lie fatigued, my spirit revives in the wind. Sweat gets dry. A secular wind. Holy chants of people in diverse creeds flow merged in the breeze. It passes, patting everybody, yet nobody sees. First printed in The Literary Hatchet.