By Aditya Bhaskara
When the sun sets down as it does,
Anguish returns like a cold-blooded assassin,
Guised under the veil of ancient memories,
Ready to strike into the concord of broken dreams.
A male nightingale would sing at a distance,
As if perched incessantly upon the strings of time.
The tune, now deeper yet aloof, would carry over
Few long lost melodies, some descants forlorn.
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| Photo credit - Indrajeet Deshmukh |
When the sun sets down as it does,
Wrinkles and whinges disappear from faces,
Colors converge to become darker, indiscriminate,
Prepared to flow into veins like pious new blood.
The tune would rise louder and louder until subtle;
Enough to transfix the infused, submerged rhythms,
Sometimes swirled up or else budged down,
For many moments that would accrue like hours.
When the sun sets down as it does,
Murk races past light for another lasting win,
Thoughts glow like ambers ardent and mellow,
Willing to sear from remnants of many molten stars.
The bird would fly away at the pause of its song,
To conciliate and assuage more nocturnal megrims,
Its wings free, its feathers soft, its flight enigmatic,
Keen to take the pensive me along and along and along.
