By Shweta Chaudhary
When evening treads
On sky’s bed,
The setting sun then weds
Kissing the horizon’s edge,
Its cheeks blush crimson red.
Far across the moon hangs,
Pale in face, its lips shrank,
Waiting to sip the wine
Of dewy night-
Last time it drank,
To ease himself of summer’s pangs.
Oh! What a delight
To walk that lane,
Where the air pricks
And teases plain.
Before the plumeria is to sight,
Intoxicating even the most sane.
Gracing the clear road that lay
where the road shines hairy black,
After the long-awaited rain that shed.
Flowers there strewn gently so best,
With strokes of pink on their neck,
And kissed with yellow on their breast.
And then there is one
Every beauty to it pales,
A sling cassia stands straight,
Its flowers in breeze merrily sails,
And some shrines the field’s base.
I heard of heaven in stories and tales,
Of angels and fairies and saintly place,
Outshines them all; stark and plain
When the flowers to me so gently trail.
And then I think
Of sorrows and struggles ablaze,
Of customary fancies, of societal praise.
Had they be won,
Then I wouldn’t be blessed:
To see such matchless beauty
In nature’s grace.