The Autumn Sky,
droops like an apple.
The perpetual burden of the skies
has hunchbacked the hills,

The eagle soars high above
as it's shadow seeks hapless chicks pecking.
The teenaged trees are mesmerised
by their own reflections in the Teesta.
The clouds wander from hill to hill
slandering the sultry sky.
The lush ricefields sway
In the yellow fragrance of the soil.
Miles below, the plains look jumbled.

The Khangchendzonga strolls out to bask,
it's sibling peaks in tow.
An incomplete folk tune
drifts along on Teesta's froth,

'Chhati bhari bokera pirai pir
Jadaichau hai Tista ko tirai tir..'

A northern breeze flirts
across the nose.

Setting aside his plough,
Hariprasad settles down to read
the travelogue on his soles.
Opening wide his chest he glances
at a sepia album of his past.
The walls washed bone-white
and blood-red, - he has lost count.
The numbed skin
forgets to scream.
But the heart remembers
its map of dreams, lovingly preserved
where children gambol
through fields,
through forests,
through teagardens,
seeking to pluck their own sun.