The
valley-dawn
Is a
drastically different one,
Heralded by
the bird-songs,
Scattered in
the crisp air,
And before
being carried away
To the next
verdant dale, is
Heard by a
restive city-sleeker,
Escaping
from the fever of city,
Dreaming of
drowning in the sea,
And woken up
abruptly,
By the sweet
songs dispersing as dulcet notes,
Released by
the wind-god, now moving fast,
The
disheveled figure staying week-end,
In the rude
stone-lodge in the Saal forest,
Red-rimmed,
breathing garlic and Champagne,
The
pot-bellied and bald V-P of an MNC
Emerges
quickly from behind the
Curtained
French windows,
Cigarette
dangling in stained lips, disorganized,
And gets
conquered by the retreating symphony unique,
And the rosy
dawn, breaking over the varied scene,
Splashing
colours from the summit top,
To the
valley floor with its active baby hands,
Moving up
and down in furious speed,
And—
The entire
scene gets daubed in red-orange,
In few
seconds, before his startled eyes,
And inner
harmony is restored,
In that
vibrant solitude divine.
