The Sun
is loosing the kind touch
like a young romance
struggling the middle age.
Winter, like an old friend
whose visited stretched for months
sometime even causing minor annoyances
on hurried mornings,
when washrooms are needed
is now packing the luggage.
A melancholy hangs
on the tired roofs,
like a spider's web.
The breeze is heavy
and slow with sadness
A sleepy sun
wistfully looks at the world
which it is soon going
to be angry with (and it knows)
It will be coming up at the dawn
sore in mood and
will not find any dew
on the grass to wash its face with
and will spend the day, sullen.
I look at the winter
with longing of a childhood friend
anticipating the loneliness
which his departure will bring about.
I can not bear to be separated
from him
but I can not dare to ask him stay
for my rudeness is afraid
of his calm and nobility
as he reminds me of what I was once.
He packs the hard suitecase
an old design, a cheap
bag of faux leather,
and I turn away
looking out of the window
as the shadows on the street
gets longer by minutes,
soon they will
penetrate my being
dust will welcome the dusk
every day.
Saket Suryesh 14/03/2013
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