An intense and poignant verse that laments the urbanisation. Songbirds are the romanticism, hope and light of our lives, feels Geethanjali.
The afternoon fritters down in its crusty bronze brunch spread,
Sprinkling appetizer dreams on fields of hope that stretch on the browns and greens,
And scurrying feet feed in its aroma that smog the drooling eyes,
Songbirds slice through this smog of tantalising breaths of the sun, nonchalantly singing to
themselves of nurturing their flocks.
The trees and thickets are their pit stop.
I listen to their high pitched enthusiasm where they leave their breath of fluttering wings in
my heart.
heels crunch these dreams while bitumen engraves them for footfall on roads to posterity.
Dreams are a myriad, mushrooming from everywhere.
The afternoon feels triumphant.
For it brings about a torpor the mind battles with, in daydreams.
The white glow that splinters on glass panes of the yellow sun peeps into blinds to tickle
eyelids heavy with slumber.
And I remain palpitating as I watch looming skies racing behind emerald hills.
Soon many dreams shall be drenched to sprout as they unfurl with morning dew.
Tarred roads will look darker than the clouds having been rain washed.
Songbirds perch on blackened branches to shake off rain that drips down their downs and
their eyes gleam nervously in their anxiety that their nests would measure the rain.
Oh the winds of a new born monsoon laden with more dreams prod the curtains and a damp
paints the canvass!
But lamps in a row shall dance with these winds celebrating winter’s darkness.
And the sun will splash the canvas with hues that flew from daydreams.
Blank walls wait patiently for them to be hung.
©Geethanjali Dilip
Pix from the Net.
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