Visage of a twilight

Floating across the horizon
The visage of the twilight
Brought silhouettes ephemeral,
Wrought in hues emblematic,
As far as the eyes could behold
There was an expanse of a country
Getting slowly merged with the mist,
Apparently blurry the sight had the evocation
Of an evening unmistakably benign,
Adding to the tenderness of the air,
There was a descent of silence
Befitting gothic semblance.

Pictorial...

Just like a scene bound by frame
The tramline crisscossing the lane
Had gone away till it had bent
Near the single file seemingly of an apartment,

People of the town could be discovered
In shawls, sweatshirts, pullovers,
Some were walking to the bazaar,
Some had the resting indolence,

The roadside benches had their fill
Old age had come there to kill
All the time that had been left spare,
With wrinkled faces and webbed brows,

A row of trees dotting the pavement
Company to the electric posts lent,
Just where a tibetan shop newly opened
Had queue of connoisseurs for exotic items,

The park nearby seemed like a fair,
Panipuri stalls having business brisk,
And candyfloss were held by little hands
Like cotton balls at the end of sticks,

Just like a picture, bound by frame...

At the day's end...

'Corns brought home for poppin'
And the cold outside is just not stoppin'
Ain't it good to be at home this night?'
The father asked his kid, smiling still alright,

The kid had just from a sweet short nap awakened,
His smile had lit the night that broadened,
'But the cold is what made us cozy here,
Can't you get the mild wintry flow in the air?'

The kid made a revert, his eyes full of innocence fair,
'Yes,' the father put his hands on the little one's head,
And then he put the bridge's pin on the disc's lead,
To make an unwinding return for both of them,

To find a meaning at the day's end
Much like a prayer they a song gained.

Night train

Like a long sentence slipping off sluggish
The train whistled through the mist,
And smell of coca piping warmth
Came and sat on lips,

The window glass had gathered
Dewy existence lucid,
And songs and verses
Played through ribs,

The swinging motion
Had caught a rhythm
By then, the rattling
Sound made a poem,

And the world it seemed
Had gone to sleep.