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.

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Esther Greenwood
The author is an 18-year-old student from Kolkata, struggling to find a home for her works. Her chief hobby is reading, specially classics dating back to the 19th and 20th centuries. She loves Dickens and Alexandre Dumas.
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