The parched mouth latched onto the dried bust,
The twisted fingers cleaving the air,
Dying to claw open the sky, unfair.
But the rain is out of reach,
A forked soul, the heart abreach,
A sudden gust of breeze, waylaid--
Stills sighs, grey and muted,
Shiver-streaked,limbs jarred,
Into a frenzy,shaken and stirred,
The strain of a minstrel perched, Through it's veins quietly rushed,
A grateful head bent but heart soaring,
Stretches arms,to clouds pouring,
Wash the gloom, glued to the skin,
Feels the stir of the impatient green.
Though the autumn,on it will again fall,
Though winter-struck,it'll still stand tall,
It will still wait for many more springs,
And the hues,each one brings.
Then one day,it'll be lightening- struck,
Rooted still, ghostly, charred, bone and bark!

Chandni
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