A surrealistic chiaroscuro painted the time. Time will change is a known thing–from ante to post and post to ante over the meridian. The present will become memories and the past will record them in its bosom–blue and dark. Future will be the magician looking for the bunny in his hat till the dramatic music hits the crescendo.
A year will conclude; another will arrive like the Swallows returns to Capistrano or the Neelkanth* to the Himalayas. New message they will carry. New poem, new song they will bring in.
An unrealistic touch painted the uncertainty that the time piggy back. We will dance; we will sing again. The street that is empty, that is vacant will be fill with as we dance through the night, or in the rain that pour suddenly in some noon–lonely and depressing one.
The soul that have departed, lets us hold our candles high for them. Death is the new beginning and we should mourn first but then celebrate the life and the moments we have.
Samsara** it is where we all live in.
*Indian Blue Jay; according to mythology they carry the news of Ma Durga returning to his abode in Himalaya after five days in the land.
** a Vedic term meaning in simple word “cycle of death and rebirth”
