Kurta Of Culture

By Ishan Jadhav

In a Tower – there,

Mingles a light on the endless,

While it falls on a certain kurta of culture,

Amid its cool blows,

Of alternating winds hot and cold

It slips through metallic echoes,

And seems as if the effect,

Will continue till eternity.

The edges of its faint light,

Like sfumato blends,

And watches a hare return to its burrow,

In the crashing and lightning of heavens above,

Reminds it, of a blurry memory,

Written on the face of sorrow.

But, even though it’s chilly out,

Fills the season with warmth within,

Hangs somewhere the scent,

Of Earth that’s breathing,

A little more than memories does,

The kurta of culture wrap,

Of wars and edifices, letters and crisis,

And the rest which stood,

The ravages of time and grumbling politics.

Half an hour has passed,

Yet the tempest is mad,

As it shuffles humanity,

With lessons it always had,

In its reactions- cultures are seen,

Moments before they are washed away.

By Ishan Jadhav