We have a rhythm in our steads
that drifts away and disengages itself.
That's when the city calls
all its weary, disheartened voyagers,
to settle for staying back.
It plays an ethereal music,
like freedom,
released from the waves of
observant life.
It's the music on dull days
and pale moons,
waxing eloquently
over this hearth,
each note carrying its splendour
under the canopy of memories
that stand between starry nights
and sun-dappled onsets.
The soul then hangs midway,
residing in those hearts who are
all ears,
for the melody of the night,
listening to each daydream
materialize
with the winter haze
while waking up from nocturnal reveries,
to enter a doorway of the mind.
An ecstasy as such
A city song that holds sway thus.
***
The song is lulling us to sleep
tonight
and calling us to its arms,
full of love and composure
for the dreams run aground
and the outcasts come out to
acknowledge its maternal core
while a songbird's heart leaps,
heaven bound,
for night crickets
enter the music room now.
The hour of our lives
is determined.
The notes,
tranquil and soothing,
come to us
with the last of the
birds' breaths
and fall on us,
with daybreak's enchanted spell.
It's the music we grasp.
The city song we repeat.
The recital we prepare for our days.
***
