The night is bored, 

the black it wears, 

torn at the shoulders… 

forever painted bleak,

bringing in the darkness 

night after night with no 

other colour it ever wore.

The evening listens to the song

of the last koel that called

and went and waited

at the temple steps

crossed legged, 

but no one returned at night

to open that door.

The day waits, silent

for the clamour and noise

we humans paint it with 

all the reds and yellows

and flowers of gold.

But the day is unhappy, 

no one once looks at it’s soul.

Ask me what I think of,

the darkness of your passing, 

the blessing from that temple, 

or the colours of the day?

I will laugh in your face 

and tell you this much:

all these don’t matter any more.