I stood by the door of my penthouse high and witness-
The funeral of the sun, dim through the dusk
And shadows gather to conspire in the night.
The clouds have taken the moon in their arms.
Till the mother puts the child to sleep.
Then, rose the velvet zephyr.
From the desert-
Which is to no scholar known.
Which is in no map drawn.
Fanned by the desire to traverse the horizon.
A thousand miles it conquered.
For repose tonight, has arrived at my door.
And into thousand souls it has broken itself;
Around my scarf, through my curls.
To, into my ear, whisper
The testimony to its journey.
And emptied its rugged brown bag that wore the travelling dust.
There were the melodies, that rang
Across the hearts of villages and cities.
Thenceforth the pastiche had flowed out at my place.
Resounding choir from the distant church;
Busy hustles at the gates of the mosque;
And clanging bells of the nearby temple.
But what in the song, the zephyr intends to strongly share?
Shy and oppressed behind the song
The silent score of the woebegone mother,
whose child lay wayside at the lap of hunger ..
And her prayers been always outdone
By the sounds, of this evening song.
But, when a song of sound has the ears of many;
A song of soul has the ears of God.
