The veil is lifted
a shy bride waits
a hint of a blush
a prelude to the day
The guests are waiting
the groom strides in
a processional overture
let the ceremonies begin.
A whispered prayer
an union of eternal souls
whispers of ‘forever’
the recessional explodes.
The guests scatter in the wind
soothed for the day
the postlude is a sad tune
carried into our days
Does the sun woo the sky?
Is the sunrise an aberration or magic?
Or just plain daily routine
that we forget to see?
ipsita banerjee 