Early
with the cock-a-doodle-doo, the broom goes,
Swish,
swish, swish.
Echoes
rising in chorus, the integrity of a closed neighborhood,
The
wind trickled few jack fruit leaves,
Smiles
on ground, they lay along with the tears of transpiration.
Frolic
on the night’s lap; mango leaves join as well,
Wording
possession of the air.
Always
it is lush green summer mornings
Canopied
with the December fog, thick mist, clogged, here.
Aroma
of the Mountain Snow White roses on early drops of dew,
Like
the sweet smell of love, from moon’s eros, along
Petrichor
wafting, with the broom’s swift clearing;
Awakens
the soul’s sleep.
For
the churchgoers an offering early,
I
sweep the summer to barren winter
Penancing
for the crude sins of the Holy Wind.
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