I hear the bugle horn in the air,
Rising above the silent daydream;
With a lash of your cane and a groan of thunder,
You emerge victorious over the golden sunbeam.
The sky bleeds in the agony of celestial wars.
As they rest on her lap – the dying stars,
And, on their graves, she sheds her loving tears,
We rejoice at her paling face, her fading colours.
Expectant eyes look up to the skies, all over the darkening plains,
Lightning strikes once again – I feel it in my veins;
The shrill cry of the monsoon bird shatters the dreamy silence,
And, on fiery wings, down they rush – the first monsoon rains.
My little village echoes with screams of delight,
And the murmurs of the excited drum reach my eager ears;
I rush out, in childish laughter, into the fading light,
Shedding off, as I run along, the burden of years.
Moments flow by, washed down the lanes,
Winding their way to the little stream;
Gliding along in idle reminiscence,
I wake up in the arms of a long-cherished dream.
I find my drowsy self by the gushing lave,
Squinting into the moonlit night;
The dead stars rise from their forsaken graves-
The shadows of their smiles, shining bright.
The tears of the day have left their mark,
In the dirge – the nightingale’s song;
Yet, it scatters about, in the lonely dark,
The promise of a day, newborn.
