(the clock shows it’s quarter past twelve)
The moon is yellow on the sleeping, though awaken, city neon sky
The crescent it is. The streets are halogen in color; they’re empty
Like today’s page of my diary. A car whoosh as a word crossed my mind
Disappearing behind my line of sight into the darkness of the night.
Prevalence silence is now that an erratic mind needs to delve into the creation.
The moon, my eyes went to, from my window of my room is showing its marks.
You know, what are they…they are mountains of the moon…my Grandma had taught,
Once, I was young and was gazing at the moon when there was a power cut.
You know…after a couple of years when we’ll get marry we’ll see the moon together…
I’ll wrap you in my arms…your head will rest on my bosom…she had said once.
I’ve got a pack of cigarettes, nine in number. Three or one more will get burn.
In the darkness of my room the edge glow like a firefly. Reminiscent of
Childhood knocking where there were trees, there were shrubs. And
There was much darkness than now. And the blinking fireflies used to dance
On those little verdant neighbor of mine like the daisy chain hang in a festival.
An ambulance runs in haste. Its siren had been heard before a few seconds ago.
Now it is seen as the white flash with blurred siren light. The resonance remain
As posit before washing away with time. The man (or is it a woman) will live
For the night or not is the thought I played on before moving on to another.
(Death has a under-the-breath relation with the night I deduce before moving on.)
A crow caws putting a halt to my chain of thoughts. This little balcony of mine
Is misty from the smoke of the cigarette. They caw again. Are they asleep?
Or are they calling out of sleep? The depth of silence got redefine as they caw
From my neighbor neem tree. I inhale the nocturnal breeze before lighting another
cigarette. The flapping of wings was heard. I look around at my sleeping neighborhood.
The breeze is serene. It sings in a somber tune. Few like me wants to sleep but can’t.
Like my neighbor. She is sitting on the parapet of her window and talking on the phone.
I have seen her. But, don’t know whether she has. She may have seen the flicker of
My cigarette. I’m not sure ’cause she is a silhouette in the street light. I also used to
Wake like this. Not long ago. But, long ago, once. The rhythm is now melancholic.
The urban development has erased many things, made extinct almost many things.
Like the civets. Two are, now, on the prowl walking with an elan on my corner
Neighbor’s flat. One seems to be elder from size; another junior–may be its child.
Once, when the season was summer or monsoon, we’ve to keep close the doors
And windows protecting the fruits and meals from this notorious nocturnal hunter.
You feeling sleepy… drowsy…do not surpass your yawn; don’t keep the urge of
Sleep to be unsaid. Sleep. Sleep, my friend. I’ll be here, right next to you
(If you want) or right at your head reading in the dim street light or just
Typing down my ideas slowly and silent as a mouse shall be or thief shall be.
Sleep. Sleep, my friend. The night is coming to an end.
(the clock shows it’s half past three)
The featured image is Nocturne: Black and Gold – The Fire Wheel by James Abbott McNeil Whistler (1834-1903)
National Poetry Writing Month Day#17: Nocturne
A-Z Challenge Letter N for Night…N for Nocturne…