Summer-prelude

Amidst summer provocation
And dismal conversations, in one of these
Days, reverberating Eliot’s cruelty
That ascends my exhausted afternoon
In certain submission,
My principles of waywardness
Filled with murmuring fern, purposefully.
I don’t wish a flickering sun
Among some commotion of hyacinth
I know that would convey some peace
To the crippled anthem of gloaming
To my impassioned hiatus
Making dull promises
Or hurling pains on forgotten streets
When flaws of neonlights reappear.
And they all grow in a twist of thought
Like unswerving ashes of moon;
I wonder how I recall
I arrange them all, in concave earth
By little argument of awful raillery
Pondered in languid imaginations
And that lingers my precision:
The dried lips and green grasses
And fabulous rhythm digging memories.
 
Here the tinted roses glow
For the arid conundrum of stones
With voices coming back for
The revelation in cerulean horizon
“Do I kindle the trodden fire ?”
 
Still, the assertive magpie hurts.
 
Then, my frail wishes
Put veil on resurrected rooms
Of instinct, in leisure of vacant morn
And fearless among airy sports;
Inside my quiet sandbar, I feel
Birds emerging from ether with
Clamors beneath the wind, as if
Frowning at my seasoned tune.
I let the whim of time
Feel the passion of summer
Touching wounded brooks and erected light
For the melted and dried, known to mountains
While on the margin of solemn horizon
Thoughtful meadows in animation
Grasping a furor of leaden sky.
 
 

But our souls decayed
Losing bright geranium in terror
The lust in vivid arms
Flocking beauties of white satin
And desperate caresses of mounds
Unclasp an arcane life for
A prelude to new disaster.
 
Now, the damp amusement in sedges
Meddling with peeled temptations
Evacuating mundane faces on rocks
For it revives the carnal skeletons
So tempting at invisible forms where
I seize a make-believe heaven, and
Not a remembrance of dwelling
In towering love subdued by hi-hopes that
My primitive wisdom created.
 
Perhaps the grey city persists
And pleasantry of unheard-of dust
Tenders hard day’s welcome to the
Buoyant clouds where childhood arrives
Bringing innocence of autumn-gourd,
Of our immutable language.
 
The cheerless oyster laments a day
with clutches at straws, propagating whispers
Of derelict vacation I gathered leniently.
 
These are the days
Of faithful dawning, reminisces of
Unending azure where the music of endurance
Mingles with thunder in shores.
Apparently the dried sun recollects
Some flotsam kisses over erring decade
Where wood and water relive all the
Soaring pains in pastoral bondage.
And I know
That would winnow my sane perception
Drifting like valleys; and the slender stars
Queuing for a long satire
To admit the sinful wishes.
 
Shall I be aware of that flutter
Wrecking immaculate nights
At portals of severed moon
Where I created flakes of requiem
And when the sediments of dull window
Rush in a copper-frenzy
Grabbing remnants of beautiful nuisance-
Like I æm deluded again
By wide, April-concupiscence
 
The owl-light reanimates an worn-out song.
 
But from a leisure of self-complacency
I accumulate enlightened petal
Of beautiful dreaming
Unnerving moth-eaten cities and graceful fleshes;
Even a decor of sonic emotion
Once scattered in wind-blown plumes
Doesn’t heal the unaccustomed youth.
 
While my idle conscience, awake in eastern wind
And polished in inevitable tears,
I fall on to the doubt
Audible like wavering pebbles
Breaking promises one by one
Till our disgusted meteor perishes
For the barren earth to fill
For the swollen river to roar
In shimmer of ephemeral love.
 
And today’s freedom would lurk
In our souls narrated by breezy humor
With erosions of vast cloud
Of some epic earnestness
Revealing long summer-solitude, willingly.