Season of overoptimism

The winter air toughens as the vesper bells chime,

The bugle stirs a hornet’s ruse in disguise,

The minaret forecloses corpses in the clime

A subcontinent yelping as if justice is about to rise.

The sinners and the losers united in defeat,

Chose not this season of retreat,

But the rants and the chants of militant gangs chill,

The hope of any tiger on any hill.

A mute spectator bends head under her scarf as she quivers,

Of no winter as this she recalls,

In digital finesse, her masters promise the union of rivers

Alas, only tears upon her sullen cheeks would fall.

The masculine will of a fantasy unborn,

Meets dismay despite the force of his horn;

Critics still give the mood its many names,

Arrogance, contempt, overbearing a fleeting fame.

The winter air condenses a scent with harnesses

To count a flock that must fear the game,

Neither the scholar, artiste or author buttresses

The spark that the potent air will enflame.

The summer must melt the overoptimism

That this season was quick to mature

The thoughtless addiction sits in the chasm

That many suns and moons have endured.

The priest and the guru of peaceful sojourn

Detour to a place of no return

Where love harbors refugees from religious strictures

That no race, no tongue nor blood or gender can yet picture.