Wednesday, 10 May 2017


[Written on a Buddha Purnima evening. When the gods gift a theme, one must write, isn't it?]

The night had her
romantic flair
as the leaves were
half burnt, half dark:
some shyness possessed
their veins,
half lit by the street lamps
as I peeped like a child
through the crimson curtains
I had bought
from the weekend sale,
ruining the first night
of a romantic affair.

The Breeze caught me:
She slipped in
through the unlocked window,
through my anticipations.
The Moon is her best friend.
In full, she paid her tribute.
Like vermilion on
forehead of a queen
she embellished her skies.
She acknowledged,
cleared her skies for the stars
who slept without complaints
on beds of her humble darkness.

I watched the entire affair
as I was drawn towards infinity.
Then, it was Breeze who whispered:
"O' poet of the eastern realms,
will you not write on them?
Your pen awaits some poetry,
and I have enjoyed your company!"