34. Ode to the Early-Winter




Autumn thus goes for the early-winter,

Coolness now starts to tinker

Topsy-turvily; like an anchor

It takes hold through its lazy days,

When the sun with its cooling-grey-rays,

Sprays a musing-tender-maze.



A new canvas on easel for painting :

Farmers go working as if hunting,

Paddy’s brown-sweep vanish to nothing,

And the barren fields get new beds,

Such a soft soil for the numerous heads

Of wheatlings, to prop up for breads!



Look autumn’s leaves brown!

Finally, foliage gets them thrown

From the deciduous with a shivery frown,

While the winter sings a lullaby,

As if to sleep a baby :

‘Too much thou played with summer’s gaiety’.



Winter flowers blossom bold,

Lo the dahlia, pentunia and marigold!

Wonder, soft petals fear not cold!

And feathered friends from distant arrive,

As if only here life thrive,

Ducks fly V-shaped to nature’s drive.



Rosy paster, tailor bird and wagtails,

Painted stork, painted duck and common quails,

Because those wintery hails

In mountains force their sojourn here,

And same winter will take care

Of the visitors; whom season’s scold not dare.



Mynah, drongo and ecstatic barbler,

Depict they cool-spirited farmer,

The air now bother not above ‘warmer’,

Its sulphureous ebriety doth sweep

The hairy-velvety-grass and keep

The intoxication perpetuated to the deep.



The egrets fly drollingly,

In the air blowing genteely,

The air! As if its spring coming courteously

With its flowery shiver,

Yes! It is airy-fairy’s spring here,

While, ebriated birdies fly as its flowers.



Such are the days of early-winter;–

Fog, mist, dew, cold quietly enter,

Robustness, meanwhile, makes a small banter,

Vow, the invigorating Goddess smiles!

Blessing of wellbeing for miles,

While, the autumn goes for annual exiles.

35. Ode to an Early-Winter Afternoon



The early-winter afternoon singths

A rosy-song for the balmy day,

The lyricist with littlest lines,

Whose beauty shines with silvery-sunny rays.



Stoic storks having spanish-siesta,

While her cooings voice floral-pink,

Oh, the snaily standstill fiesta!

The sages, guess what they think?



The sky’s muse from above,

With fancy-lorn eyes,

Bless-lorn it doth bow,

Vow! Small-sashaying-misty blessings.



And the evening all fancy-free!

Because whatever we can imagine

Becometh real with a glee,

With luxuriating steps she doth begin.



Spread out emotional landscape,

Protruding paw in friendship,

Its wild instinct nobody can escape,

And congratulating passes fresh air’s whiff.



The softy with its soft words

To her–the love lorn farmer girl,

Whose fun and frolicity buds

Open like a robust hued pearl.



What a delicate weather it is!

As if clime is opening its taste buds,

Bravo be the beauty’s bliss!

Petal power smiles above muds.



Oh the evening like a chubby child;

Eye-catcher and pleasantly-plump,

Half-listens to the sun’s mild

Request for the reddish slump.



The evening with such rhythm

As the feministic ease of a belly dancer,–

The soul-stifler to its fathom;

Wheezing metre by the curvey winker.



Therupatic it seems

To the day’s bumps and bruises,

The day which wailed thinly, now beams

Gossiply; leisure-lorn it cruises.



Too quiet like serenest shower;

The fair hussy without fussy,

Like Chrysanthemums for Christmas

Show no heed to the bee’s hurry.



Everything as if meditation-brained,

And heart with all its waters coloured,

While foxey logic all drained,

As if a cradle from heaven gets lowered.



And when the night starts to fall,

Vanishing paradise doth it seem, aye!

While, the paradise giving a call,

‘Say me not a weepy-eyed bye’.