Winding Streets of Nostalgia…


those gravel streets
rife with sneering mud puddles,
echoing the sermons
of prolific rainclouds in tandem
filling vacuous silences
in musical notes of rain-chimes,
like temple bells ringing
to awaken drowsy mornings,
replay in my mind’s eye
as array of sepia snapshots.

the mesua trees
their foliage a blend
of pink and chartreuse flutters
stood along winding streets,
draped in streetlight whispers
and buzz of dancing moths,
their white and gaudy blossoms
teasing naive butterflies
with nectarine promises,
while their scents were
a rancid blasphemy of spring.

skies like faded blue denims
had volatile mood-swings,
preened in scarlet satins at dawn
they wore tapestried versatilities
of spring flowers at twilight,
they wore mascaras in azure gaze
wearing their vagrant tresses
flying freely like tempest’s sighs
when temperamental clouds
growled in kohl-tinged monsoons,
their visage like scented plumeria
in the winter chill,
scented in maple wood fires.

harsingars peppered
sublime smile of morns in scents,
to reverberate as an aubade
while early-rising doves danced
to the echoing symphony,
tamarinds laden on boughs added
a tangy flavor to whimsical days,
blending with taste of gooseberries
while bright dahlias in versicolor
scattered laughter on rain-songs.

nights were sequined
in the truancy of constellations,
while a protean moon smiled
her serene smile laced in reverie,
it slept over rippling lake
in a crumpled, tired heap,
or perched over the slenderness
of swaying bamboo groves,
and pressed its nose to windows
infringing on privacies of lovers,
at times being quilted
in the grays of night clouds.

now away from those serpentine streets,
in another time and space
entangled in new found preoccupations
I have long forgotten that past existence
except when in moments of solitude
some scene or vibrant panorama,
brings back these sepia reminiscences,
like a flying dove or a blooming dahlia
some old anecdote or snapshot,
rewinds lost memories in gay snippets…


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