Tale of a Monsoon Night

On a lonely, dark monsoon night,
sits against me an empty broken chair,
midnight shivers in the shivering cold,
a nicotinic smoke chasing the air.

A distant radio plays the music of the nineties,
those rowdy, nonsensical, chaotic songs,
songs that sing through the chambers of my age,

parts of which my nostalgia lives on.

I stand intensely engaged in a monologue,
reaching out to every unvisited corner of me,
disturbed by a plenty atrocities in the dark sky above,
resurrecting as the silence I fake to be.

The smell of a young omelette on a fry pan,
mixed with the drizzle on the outskirts of Bombay,
equipped with Pink Floyd, Eliot, and Einstein,
yet the lunatic's Delhi seems far away.

She creeps into a thunder of events, which
follows me from a city to another,
I am nothing more than a blinded nothingness,
trembling on a path to where we are together.

The End

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