Renaissance

Renaissance

The skies wetten the dead earth.

Endless voices of cries, screams, plunders

are being put to a halt

by thunders

of the stoic night.

Standing at the annals

of time, I see no life. 

In bliss shine the suns of charms.

But tears don't draw the erstwhile caring palms.

Instead, they predate

on the meaty moolah.

Rains are bad if in excess.

But I must confess,

that no picture is

within my reach.

To shake these flithy touts,

practise what I preach

is the lonely path

I choose for a renaissance.

C Kumar