Home is the Perfect Colour

Outside the sorry skyscrapers tower to the heavens,
ladders knocking on a sky too tired to open the

door & say hello. They say the weather is 
coloured by the mood of the Gods but here

is a drape of clouds hiding the Ferris wheel on
the Thames. Why do they call this river their father?

I always thought there is something quietly
feminine about a drop of water, a longing which

consumes like a beautiful drowning. Across the 
mountains and deserts, Ganga ma dives into the

ocean & the air is lush with her sprinkled song. I 
may not know her tears anymore but if I close my

ears I can still see in her bosom the dazzling sound 
of a thousand colours.

Author’s Note: Happy Holi :)