Hear it sing!
In the sun-kissed meadows
Outside the urban sprawl
Of the buildings covered
With exhaust residue,
The wind sings a sonorous song
Heard often in the summers of a romantic Europe.
(Romantic Europe? Well, as per the glossy travel brochures and websites. Ads. –
hide grim facts and economic ruins.)
A kind of rustling of fine China silk
Delicately arranged and the muted laughter
On moon-lit nights
In a boudoir of a French aristocrat
Described so well by a Turgenev or Balzac
Or perhaps other masters as well
But who cares these days?
The wind creeps in behind the solitary watcher
Startling him with a scented presence
In that lonesome meadow
Near a strip of dying river
Already yellow-faced and gasping
Due to the debris choking its innards…
The rushing of a rapid divine breath on the floor of the
Woodlands, scattering the leaves in varied directions
And agitating the spirits natural in that early gloom.
Playing with the moving trees, in a dark clump
In the poetic Billund where air is pure nectar
And flowers wink at the South Asian visitor
Not used to such a pure sanctuary.
The breeze rising joyously
In the brown meadow
Like the musical notes of a concert
Played fast, briskly and with gusto
By a mystical composer, high above
The green canopy!
The summer breeze…musical
For the Indian ear that can hear
Sounds, ignored/ unheard, in daily rush
For grim survival in grime and dust!
Pix from Net.