The colorful horizon, where the kites are born,
From the rib of the wind.
A glorious transformation, of the blues, to multi-color.
The sun too has its ways, of shining as brilliant as he can,
Like that story of the wind and the sun,
In war, battling to see who is more powerful
And yet no jacket comes off from the breasts
Of village women, whose portrayal
Of August, is looking after the ragamuffins
Who are on school holidays. And still this month, is like
One’s waist, somewhere in the middle block,
Spanning 31 days, and tells custodians of time
How beautiful the outdoors can be
When we are light-perfected meanderers
Of lazy time, when everything slows
Down except a child’s eyes, which are ever alert on the sky
Making the presence of the wind, tangible,
In that time-tradition, of floating a creature
That is known to flutter, to somersault, to dive
To runaway and to be lost, and still,
When you look at the face of a kite runner,
Every worry seems oblivious, like a lonely sunflower
On a neck-stalk, in fullest bloom,
More radiant than any sun.
