The Wee Hours

It is the time

When a black star descends

On the closed eyelid of the water in the well

The train chugs down in the vicinity of the city

Even in deep sleep

Body seeks unknown warm

Birds are swinging on the barren boughs of the tree

Like un-ripened apple

Even bespectacled eyes catch sleep

But the last line of the poem escapes

Leaving the notebook blank.

 

A young widow, clad in white,

Begs lorry driver a lift

The driver is in deep slumber,

It is the time

When both the sun and the moon

Are lusterless

Death embraces the old and aged

A new born laughs

In the dreams of a pregnant woman….