The wafting smell of the Diner’s Bar,

Through the alleys of dark,

Upon the mound of fool’s arc,

I bid adieu to the novice’s mark,

Outside the realm of my dreamless heart.

The entry into the concrete jungle,

Is a shock from my balcony,

The ‘city of hope’ is a crumbling lie,

As the facades fade, of the day gone by.

Mists of memory shroud the greed.

When it clears, it is bleaker than before.

Fool’s Gold – they call it sure.

And it persists on its path,

Like never before, for evermore.

The city chokes like a belching boar,

As though some bone was stuck in its throat.

And then it pukes out its gold,

Of what they call – ghoulish mould,

On the street, at His door.

What pricks it’s bottom, when it squats?

Where is the haven that mocketh at all?

Why are the people scurrying, though old?

While the rest scout the monuments, bold;

I look at their faces, expressions sold.

The oppression of summer,

Or the dynamics of fall.

All are revisited, all retold.

The mist of the morning,

Befriends noon – it’s foe.

God made Heaven and Earth alike,

Infinite ways to equilibrium we find.

Yet in the torch’s light it defies,

The very nature of impartiality – it flies;

Flying to Heaven’s lake.

What is left is worthy of a fight,

The monster awakes beaming in delight;

At the destruction of a dream,

In the days of yester,

In the time of yore.

I am appalled at the heinous sight,

Death to the Keeper is our delight.

The keys to the bread are lost,

Leaving the ketchup on the table,

Spilled as though it were blood.

Blood in rivers,

Sweat in drains:

That is left, my dear,

Of the dream that was,

As I awaken to a day, yet to transpire.

High above the mountains, amidst the shimmering sky,

Tearing through the clouds with grace, beneath the sun’s eye,

Gliding past spiders’ webs, nests’ of crows and stinging bees.

He cries out in anguish and watches man arrive,

Bringer of death, bow in hand and bird in eye.

Grim and solemn, hurt and tried, the man took his aim,

It glided, turned to look and tried to fly – in vain.

The arrow pierced its wing and its body throbbed with pain,

As the proud eagle fell, the world wept tears of rain.

The little boy sat all alone, on the dirt by the tree,

When suddenly a loud thump near by

Awoke him out of his dream to see,

The victim of man…that failed to flee.

It took three cold nights and four dawns

For the proud little eagle, from death to return.

Pure joy the boy felt, as he helped it up,

For no longer was he alone, in his dark, thatched hut.

The bond between them was forged with love,

And the eagle rose, and hovered above

On the fateful day, that it flew away,

Their love it took…that lasted night and day.

And far away, as the eagle flew on

Not once did it forget,

The kind deed done.

Nargish Khambatta

Afore I could savour the concluded event,

Applaud, rue, compliment or repent,

The advent of the one that followed

Ensured the experience was hurriedly swallowed.

Glorious victory, dampening defeat…fleeting unruly visitors

Played temporary havoc, the fickle tricksters.

Rush, rush, rush…responding to the need of the hour,

Relationships, dreams, aspirations threatened to sour.

IPSS© All rights reserved. Printed by: The English Book Depot, 15 Rajpur Road, Dehra Dun, Uttaranchal - 248009, India. Published by: Philip Burrett, The Doon School, Dehra Dun.