The Sloping Town at Twilight-A Memory of Diwali in Darjeeling

The city lurches, stumbles and falls;

Unsure of how it spread around the rocky rings encircling the indigo hills, the snow enthralls;

Like a little girl's playhouse;

Tiny chalets rise, the heavy rain clouds douse.

Paper lanterns ascend amidst the orange streaks in the cerulean air;

The glowing emerald and shamrock draperies upon the hillocks, pine cones' lair;

Shooting stars scratch the sky;

As the hems of people's clothes whip in the cold and flutter by.

Akin to smears of rich, succulent cream;

Every viewers' dream;

The range seems to hover with but misty nimbus beneath;

A lord of all that is elevated, a porcelain wreath.

At twilight, the golden edge;

Lover's creek, the sun and the mountain's pledge;

Too lofty to witness;

The heavenly realm's blessed finesse.

Nature's snobbery;

The jagged ridges do not touch; a splendid scenery;

Layers of fog separating;

The icy taperings seem to float; the lower ones afraid to gaze up, grovelling.

Teal environs; lanes winding;

Sitting on terraces, a flash of light for an instant, then scattering;

Steam curling from cups in front, umber;

The aroma of confectioneries that continue to linger.

Through a garden of embellishments and adornments, not out in the open;

Where shrubberies sprawl uneven;

The hanging pots brighten;

As an October comet whizzes.

Monasteries with domes, the topaz Oriental gods turn pink and peach;

The tumbling towns and roads wish to be held back, thus beseech;

It cannot turn its stony head to stare at the sky transforming scarlet;

Carmine, violet and magenta enmeshes above the hamlet.

Unable to discern houses at eve;

Minuscule glittering orbs like bracelets, necklaces of benevolent princesses who bestow, give;

Garlands, rills, an endless thread;

The festive hours as deeply grey as lead.

Sipping chamomile tea;

Spirits soaring as the pyrotechnic spells; free;

The sapphire and jade promises of the day no longer seen;

Yet the red, fated string links our tranquil souls with the dawn's dewy sheen.

The memory of such a flickering dusk stored in the heart, the first of its kind;

A no moon night, the fumes swallowing all; a silver parchment filled in the mind;

An enchantment, a shimmering gossamer veil of recollections just, 

To etch into the very being, a lust.

They can never bid adieus, the foamy bluish hills;

The reflecting windows display the vastness, each turmoil stills.