April passes by the shop

So many people
passed the shop this evening
And I was watching
Their best evening dresses
so apparent;
Their legs no different,
the saunter-style;
Their hands so normal,
swaying.

But none of them had a head
As I counted their numbers,
one by one, or in groups;
As the number of death at home raises,
like the rivers of monsoon;
As the summer airs come blowing happily;
Though the people
talked secretly as they gaited.

The headless people
Their happiness hid above the shop's shutter
while I dream for home when there are fetes,
Their sadness hid above the shop's shutter
when I was sitting inside the shop
How could I have seen them
when the shutter was so low
And the shop was
one level below the footpath.