Winter dawn, fog and mystery,

Somewhere it is busy time and

Somewhere it is sleeping time,

I am standing awake,

On the side of a bypass road.

Nearby to a village, where

Dwellers are in deep slumber,

Delicately balanced and unperturbed.

They need no necessity to apologize

To God or to the state, because

Beautiful night is silent on sound sleep,

Uninterrupted flood lights and heavily loaded

Trucks are on the road, always running

To carry essential commodities, usually moving

Wheels and engine make echo inside.

I, mesmerized, taking me as myth, and it is me.

I was involved in loving one youngster, and

I tried to help him as care taker for the time being,

So as to looking into matters, in absence of parents,

Of supervising his playing capability,

And I have to stay in the village, and

At dawn, I woke up and stood alone there.

Some learning would come, and I have evaluated

The moment of my performance,

As I have submitted a paper of assessment

On the performance of the little one,

To his parents who would approve or disapprove

Quality of my supervising retrospect.

And I have learnt everything of parents’ judgement,

It was that I did not know the technique,

As I loved my own benefit for money, and

I spoilt their ambition, leaping into hypothesis,

That did not work in practice and

I spent time to live with their hope

For attaining of superiority,

I have made only torque of my desires,

Not benefitting to their little one,

As they did not take me as a party of favorite,

Irony of fate,

And I have to leave this place and to walk away

For another destination for good,

Losing my honor for investing time with them,

Morning is coming and I have to forget

The moment of smiling of that little one

Who once broke silence with his bursting laughter.




When our bus passing through hills,

Village clay homes situate under tree-shades

At slops of valleys, morning sunlight admires

Presence of these peaceful spirits,

One example free from flat-culture, lane or by lane pits,

Where we are dwelling in crowded fields,

Concrete walls and roofs kick sunrays

Into unhappy geeks, rotten heritage as proof.

Away from town, in sublime score of serenity,

These clay homes are beautiful shelters those turn

Into abode of nature’s creation whose dwellers

Can be proud of being share holders of the earth,

We cannot follow this track, we are tourists here,

We are habituated in factory, chimney, and computers

In the loop of livelihood, tumbled is serenity in our homes,

These clay homes are pristine abode of blues, sweet in our eyes.