Poetry

It rained last night, 
dampness giving a tumultuous pleasure 
the day before, town was burning. 
Weeping ashoka laden with smudges, 
and sky was crimson red, 
You could not avoid this heat and dust, 
love and hate; sharing the cooling winds. 
 
The patterns are changing, 
what to redeem, what not. 
Trampled by death everywhere, 
frightened words go for a dignified fall. 
We are trading our bruises for moorings. 
A happy notebook is blasted, 
and motif goes into exile. 
 
World moves in circle 
it will touch you again 
A strange divinity puts you in oblivion. 
The spirit walks some steps with you, 
and then disappears. 
My grass burns in front of me. 
This had been a festival of slaughtered dreams.