Music

Time of Cold

Dead leaves now cover the place,

Where their shadows once fell,

A grim ceremony marked,

By echoes of an unseen knell.

A temporal shroud of greyness, 
Thrown over balding heads.

A metallic coldness of doorknobs,
Clear vision which steadily fades.

Air like a hundred needles,
A reptile huddled up beneath some momentary warmth.
Dead trees burn in happy homes,
Stories woven around the red-brick hearth.

All disperse as night falls fast,
A web of frosts glistens on trees,
Black rocks wait for the morning light,
However weak, the sun at last.

Scribble Series #4

His art teacher handed him the corrected homework. There was a big red question mark and a comment at the end which read, “Please learn colours correctly.”

A five-year old confused Arun couldn’t understand what was wrong with the blue and purple trees, a brown sky and greyish flowers growing in blue bushes.

Not even when he examined the tiny strip of film negative for the third time- after all, it had been the source of his inspiration.