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Dec 2024
Across the fields of saffron,
My beloved has been gone,
Looking at the withered fields,
Early dawn a peacock cries.

Chinars have shed four times
And eight times my faith
The lantern is getting dim,
I see the moon, he is late;
Till date, seventeen sweaters
I've weaved, looking at the gate,
Sitting on the chair
Mumbling the same hymn
I look at the fields,
Neither returns bloom nor him.
Written by
Abhay Sarkaria  M/India
(M/India)   
38
 
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