Divine Nocturne

Beauty.
The splash
of the first autumn rain
disturbing the dust of the street.
The nascent scent.
Of dormant clouds.
Of sleeping winds.
Of older beginnings.

Surprise.
The change of the bright red light,
to blue,
to green,
to yellow.
Against the twilit redness
of the seldom-blue sky
Of the seldom-blue mind.

Awe.
The macabre idol.
Worshipped in the act of killing
all that is cruel,
while her children smile.
While their children laugh.
And theirs.

Freedom.
The soft rhythmic drip of
night into day
and day into night
(amidst the bedlam)
And the orange ice lolly
planning a plunge into the
unstarched pink salwar.
While the consumer giggles
(amidst the bedlam)
at two in the morning.

Love.
Under the nine-tier chandelier,
of the brilliant tent
on the edge of every road.
Every shining stone
of every shining bangle.
Every iris of every third eye
on mud.
Every conch blown.
Every tear dropped.
Every splash on the Ganga.

(This could be my first attempt at writing civil poetry. While the attempt will undoubtedly make Deeptesh and his flames very proud, I might just have ensured my acceptance into LoserLand with this.
And yes, this was written during 'Durga Pujo 2009'.
And yes, because I was happy and giggling like a donkey this Durga Pujo 2009)