Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Presto

Nishachar II

The maelstrom of thoughts is dying down,
as dawn caresses the city with her soft glow.
Sweet sleep beckons the weary eyes,
that gaze at the sky turned blue.

Smoke from the last cigarette end,
sways in the sun out of the window.
Light and dark dance in courtship,
their conflict an eternal ruse.