See the dust, laid down, to a silent stupor
And the soul, of an ethos, awash with sin
Who painted, monsoon’s, metaphor
With solemn shades, on a, city’s skin!
Every inch, of realm, reflects faith’s tryst
With souls squirming, o’er rites, so rife
Sublime is, the spirit of, this spell, of mist
It bares, to bone, enigma of life!
A graffiti, on a, dampening wall
Yet never ever, fades, its conjecture
Why present, seeks pain, in past’s recall
Like a, broken rosary, with lost prayer!
Soon night, will paint it, all in dark
The twilight’s truth, with a myth, glorious
Shall live, yet, all its, shadows stark
The Evening, On My, Wet Canvas!
© 2019 Vikas Chandra