Village December

In the blanket of black n long nights,
Far away in the lands away from sights;
The morning opens his eyes,
In foggy December days of shorter size;

The smoke from morning foods,
With the smell of burning woods;
The fog sneaking from the pond,
With altered shapes they abscond;

School kids with navy blue sweater,
Rubbing their hands with each other;
Waiting for the winter vacation,
To migrate to a warmer location;

The street children smoke smoky cigars,
With imaginary nicotine standing on altars;
They have shrunk due to cold,
The cruel winds which strike them bold;

The hiding Sun makes everything helly,
The dogs hid their head in their belly;
The cats mew as if famished of heat,
Blinking their eyes for summers retreat;

The small streams diverting into a bigger one,
The ugly cry of the railway engine;
The boats are empty and the tracks bear fewer loads,
The migrated birds still thinking to leave the boards;

The cuckoo bird has sore throat,
Her voice has fallen in crow’s moat;
She waits for a gurgle of warmness,
To sing in the original song of oneness;

In this whole, something is opposite,
To the cold’s bank balance deposit;
The hand pump making murky noises,
But pumping warm water of best choices;

The village road ends up after some meters,
You will find a way if you cross the fog in sweaters;
The washed clothes hang in wetness,
They fall asleep in the wait of dryness;

The sheep have their wools shaved,
Their wools converted to sweater paved;
They can’t pay price for their own sweater,
Hiding in a corner of farm in cold winter;

In this whole stopped system,
The Sun appears at random;
With his gleaming warming thin rays,
He smiles as a small boy in his own ways;

The system starts n starts working,
The wet n cold now lurking;
Waiting for the Sun to hide n night to come,
In the blanket of black and cold n numb.