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.
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