Since, telegraph wires, learnt to rust
In my farmstead, of, many a year
I read graffiti, on my dream, in dust
“Your hope, is worse than, our despair”!
Why I, stare each day, at the murky sky
And yearn, to bathe, in the, tears of sun
This wait, must live, until I die
And beyond, pilgrimage, of my, ennui’s eon!
I breed, black birds, villagers call “crows”
Fed, on my heart, drunk, in my gore
From a, myriad miles, when that, mystique blows
We long, for, our, very own, petrichor!
I squelch barefoot, thru, barren barn
One with, misery, that paves, my ways
My life, is tangled, in time’s yarn
Where Scarecrows, Burn, On Monsoon Days !
© 2022 Vikas Chandra