By Birat Neupane
A distinct chatter amidst the whispers of clouds,
Some profess their love, some bath in nature's tub;
Well, I was busy singing the songs of scouse,
Such was the Friday night on our village pub.
Raving in the rhythm of ecstasy-holding hands-
Here we stand on the roof overlooking the town;
In the years to come when our threads disband,
These twinkling eyes shall make us turn around.
Oh! How gently we flirted with sparkling dolls,
On treading the dusty road, their beauty untouched;
Fragrance of their voice draped in glittering curls-
Laughing like the moonlight, fluttering as a bird.
Taking our abode on the floor, we wait for dinner;
Bestowed on artistic platter is a fabric of culture,
Like a devout prayer, graceful serenity befalls the air,
Thanks to our host, your blessings cascade from altar.
Far from home, sheltered in the tree of faith;
Fear no more yonder the ring of golden heart,
Every moment a new joke, laughers halt breath.
Silk of diverse colour knitted in a shiny craft.
Just ere the dawn, we dare travelled another bus;
Horse of despair succumbed on gate of valour.
Awaking from trance, we let our deference gush;
On the plain canvas-the art of austere glamour.
When the sun comes crawling up the horizon,
How happy we feel to revere the divine light;
As an audience we heed the drama of creation,
Final embrace of peers- a souvenir of the night.
A tale through art