Where have gone those — those?
tormented by desire?
Every twig, every bough was bedecked
with tinsel. ?? ?
Now a feeble ray is left at my tip?
— eyes expectant, lain in wait for Navroz?
When spring will again stretch its arms
And summer run riot with colour
and tempestuous fragrance?
Heir of epochs.
What then if sunshine is lost?
and darkness begins to weave its snare?
I will not doze.?
Dust hovering in the breeze?
has receded — a grain at a time.?
Evening shadows brew scheming whispers.?
The lone apple of my eyes — this na?ve ray?
will also find a pretext.?
See! How fair, how comely, how intent
Yet when dark has extracted its due,
Who will speak out for it?
Eyes groping in the dark
Hands bereft, numb?
A circle without a centre.?