It lasts, an age, mid-year solstice
When shadows, stray not, sunbathed streets
Spent matador, measures up, his nemesis
Bull’s sultry snorts, with his, cold heartbeats!
When seeds of wrath, rear tears of sun
In the farm, of faith’s, eternal mirage
What yields, this two realms’, communion
In the heart, of hope, looming fall’s outrage!
Squall spews steam, on a, nauseous noon
Sun’s sway, defies, woods’ moribund shade
Beholding, the rage, in each, speck strewn
A wizened, widow wails, where a waif, once played!
The beast, lay dead, in the, man’s blood-fest
O’er soil, that seethes, like life’s melee
Goes on…, thus, faith and, fear’s conquest
On A, Dry And Dusty, Summer Day!
© 2019 Vikas Chandra