The Night

By Divya Devarajan

When time wraps around a majestic robe of darkness,

there unveils a beauty, the most charismatic night.

Is it the magic of darkness or the eeriness of silence?

The aura of night is never confined in words.

It starts with the music of the night, the crickets

that sing their songs, in some unknown humming language.

A cool breeze then cleanses and lightens the soul,

and I take in all the goodness of the sky letting out every scars locked inside.

The clouds rush in a hurry, to be a bow to the sky at another place

and the bats have long stopped their intense dance, and rests off dangling from trees.

As a shooting star passes through the sky, rushing among the bright-glowing stars

I wonder what wish it carries with so much eagerness and thirst.

The moon is now full and is smiling kindly at me,

and seems to convey a question, 'Who knows you better than me?'

My pretense slips by, and I melt into the night

For this is what I am, forever the night's patron.

The moon then listens, as he always does

Showering me with embraces through the falling dew drops.

The leaves nods to me in unison and shakes when I deny something

and a firefly brings me light, giving me some company.

As the night passes along, I dissolve into its nihility

and my soul flies off to the sky, as always as a night traveller.

By Divya Devarajan