By: Sunil Sharma

On a rough day,
When the strong winds
Erupt suddenly—
Like some angry arguments
Festering behind smiles,
In the curtained homes;
Distant memories,
Dormant,
Now—
Resurfacing again,
In ferocious rooms,
Over the steaming herbal tea
Served in cups of porcelain
By the plump dainty hands,
And daily gossipy tabloids
Talking of tipsy stars,
And the hissing winds
Leave the dusty city,
Asthmatic and coughing;
In corners littered with
Oyster shells and wilted flowers,
Washed ashore by the retreating
Oily seas in disgust,
The hissing wind,
Now uncoiled and free,
Whipping up the grey and grimy city,
And
Agitating the branches
In their mighty hands,
The leaves being shed
By the lonely trees
On this autumnal morning,
Along the narrow serpentine streets,
The yellow leaves being plucked up
By the masculine winds,
And flying off to some distance,
Before falling down,
You feel—
As a driven leave,
Detached from roots,
Fragile,
Redundant,
Mourned by none.