The Unending
Through powdered dusk
With caramel light
And hint of musk
A cloud floats in sight
Over a thick green grove
curtained with fog
It's a treasure trove
By a smoky bog
A trove of Navajo lilies
And fairy bees
And striped bass
And wood berries
The cloud swirls through moments
When nothing much matters
When the sky is silent
And the moon royally flatters
And shines so distant
Over grass and thyme
And makes such songs
With note and rhyme
One time when colors are yet to settle
One time when darkness is sharp with nettle
One time when there are motes of twilight dust
One time when the day is here but..almost..just
The cloud looks down on the orchid earth
So solid and peaceful it rests
Its crannies with foliage, its nooks with winged life
So full of troughs and crests
It's tender core lies beneath
Very stoic, blue, and quiet
It whispers to the frail roots
And its whispers are ivory white
It susurrates of times to come
Of stunning awe and fame
Its ivory specks go and fix themselves
To those frail roots with no names
It tells of silence that is yet unborn
The denouement of wistful prose,
The silence that will herald and thrall
The epiphany of a rose
With caramel light
And hint of musk
A cloud floats in sight
Over a thick green grove
curtained with fog
It's a treasure trove
By a smoky bog
A trove of Navajo lilies
And fairy bees
And striped bass
And wood berries
The cloud swirls through moments
When nothing much matters
When the sky is silent
And the moon royally flatters
And shines so distant
Over grass and thyme
And makes such songs
With note and rhyme
One time when colors are yet to settle
One time when darkness is sharp with nettle
One time when there are motes of twilight dust
One time when the day is here but..almost..just
The cloud looks down on the orchid earth
So solid and peaceful it rests
Its crannies with foliage, its nooks with winged life
So full of troughs and crests
It's tender core lies beneath
Very stoic, blue, and quiet
It whispers to the frail roots
And its whispers are ivory white
It susurrates of times to come
Of stunning awe and fame
Its ivory specks go and fix themselves
To those frail roots with no names
It tells of silence that is yet unborn
The denouement of wistful prose,
The silence that will herald and thrall
The epiphany of a rose
Comments
congrats Mukta, just read ur Delhi blog.....really happy for you.
-pravin
Thanks a lot. Very sorry I couldn't meet you. Wanted to and show you the pictures. But I didn't have your mobile number. Had forgotten to save it when you'd called.
Again, thanks!
thank you. I'm gld you liked it..and about the poet..well, you could be right. he he!
I'm waiting for a sory. :-)
:)
Thanks! :-)
Hey blythe,
Thanks..you liked the last line? Glad that it was over? he he!
hey anon,
hmm. that sounds familiar. :-)
hey khakra,
why is that, i wonder? perhaps they know what you thinkof kids.
:-D
Hello Samudyuta,
Thank you very much. :-)