Silent was the sun
except the sunbeams and brightness
it scattered, during the day
why the fickle moon raising
so many questions needing emphatic
answers in the midnight!
Between the scorching heat and
uneasy moonlit late night,
sandwiched is the failed fantasy
like the half-burnt wood
simmering with last remnants of hot ashes.
Questions never stopped gate-crashing
but who will give pacifying matching answers
when mystery reigns in the wintry night,
acute uneasinesses rules the mind
severe pain pierces the heart
and paradoxes fill the air?
The fragrance of sweet Jasmine
and the cool breeze,outside,
are trying their best to palliate things, consolating en route a distraction
but why it can't be from the sources it is needed most?
if not now in the moonlit night
then at least in the new morning?
Kamakhya
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