The Father

He sat by the road hoping that he hadn't missed the bus that came to his village to collect workers to work in towns.He scrunched up at the morning sun and somehow knew he'd have to return home, one more day,empty handed.He turned to the stretch of the empty road.He took a deep drag on his 'beedi' and watched his hope going up in smoke.
He wondered, how long he'd have to wait to see his daughter's eyes light up at the sight of food,he'd take home at the end of the day!

The Cry

The incomplete story of the red Moon,
Floating in the fragrance of the night,
Stops,on the silence of her face--
On her trembling lashes, 
Like the furled bud, waiting,
To be touched by the Sun.
The night smiles,caressing 
The light,dancing on her smile,
And gleaming on the tendrils
Kissing her unlined brows.
The Moon shares her soft pillow
Lies there a little while longer.
He stalls the day from appearing,
That rushes away, leaving behind
The jagged pieces of broken dreams.
The strain of a flute sobs in the dark.
      Who plays?The west wind?
          Is it a plea? For what?
For sleep,to weave a complete dream?
                                                      Chandni

Fading Colours

They're strangers,befriended by their mutual love for building sand castles.The little brown boy and the fair skinned one,divided by skin colour but united by the colour of innocence.Their shadows don't discriminate, neither do the blue sky and the golden sun.They speak different languages but laugh in the same.They play with the sand,oblivious of the games the adults play to drive a wedge between them.They might meet in a different time frame but will they be allowed to share a common social platform?Time races on,but isn't a racist.Thankfully!
                                                    Chandni

Insatiable

It's not a fable though,
A story,nonetheless about a crow.
Hopping branches,raving with thirst and hunger,
Ravenous,the raven's raucous,ranting desperation and anger.
The wood,shadowed by trees kissing the sky, breathes calm,
But the crow circles over it,shredding it to pieces,the air warm,
The dry stony eyes roving, to catch sight of water,if not a bite.
Sees it's tribe,encircling,perhaps a cadaver,veiled from the sight.
Swoops down and becomes one with the crowd 'murderous',
Has it's fill and takes wings....maybe for another carcass?
                                                Chandni.

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