In full gale of lilies
does one desert heaven
at its threshold,
abandon God at hand,
and put on gramophone
a disc of burnt clouds?

Do momentary ignorances
lifetime agonies multiply?
Do towers self-erected
the breath imprison
and let out tears
from sphinx eyes?

None may dig out laughter.
So chants an idle breeze.
Nor shall it avail
to unwrap slumbers.

Too late then
to await another wind
loaded with clouds?

The winds like owls screech:
The storms no more to dried roots
shall the rain bring.
Whirlwinds alone shall
the autumn leaves gather away.

But shall there not be
another spring? sigh the ruins.
Ye, ye, prophesy the winds,
but for another self.

 © CR Mittal

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