Lit up cleverly with a
romantic light
each morning
presents itself,so well,
as if it's a begining
with a winning streak.

Innocence, the mood
that prevails here, makes
it look anything is possible.
A witness, he  loses in his
stream of thought
looking at the children
playing with the speckled
pool of light seeping
through the leaves
of careless tall trees.

Comes noon spitting fire,
with his waves of heat
the legacy of an angry
scorching  sun, stuns
all the children by now
are hiding somewhere.

At the sedated hours
of sluggish after noon
the narration in yellow,
takes a different pace.
It's the designated
time zone for
the siesta to happen,
the evil hours of libertines too
to go gently knocking on the
doors of their concubines,
safely away from the snooping
eyes of wives who have
kept awake keeping
the brood together fighting
against the vagaries of
winds that make or
flatten sand dunes.

Few ones, among them
amidst contemplation after
furtive,  furious *******,
take counts over and over again
from all ends and see
karma's boomerang awaiting,
across the bend of time.
Repentance and the such
are the next,as sun goes down.

Evening has a tendency to let go,
tendency to say good bye, easily
against a hurriedly assembled
stage properties of evening sky.
It's a caricature of what the day did

In her black, hooded cloak
night advances,crying aloud:
"Don't delay any more, it's time
surrender to the army of occupation"