Drums beat the endless chords
Of something that looks like an agony,
A vague aftermath of a smoky carcass.
The crowd remained enthralled or detached.
In excitement, in boredom and in unison.
They seemed to know the routine of celebration,
Of enjoyment,
Of the rejoice.
But still not eat at it,
into themselves.
They seemed to even echo their claps and nods so parallel,
To the rhythm,
That they all became another maestro
The deaf Beethovens.
While the elephant,
danced.
And sang.
In a pristine celebration only known to him.
Like the seducing dance of the King Cobra,
In the Jungles of a drenched Wayanad.
Green,
Yet so Aroused and red.
While nature became its charmer,
She,
the nature,
Juggled with the soul, vigour and energy of the King.
In one plate,
altogether,
The art,
The music,
And the rhythm became
The dirge of a new cemetery
of an old heaven.
Hungama of Navaratri from a mountain, seen and heard.