The City Is Dry

The city is dry

the sparrows

                    no more sit

          on the branches

for the winds

have grown murderous of late;

the equation of flowers

that some youthful eye

                    once gave

          to the trees

when the heart was warm

and the soul emotional

has been killed

by the dry bones

of this season;

sky dozes like

a paltry subaltern

on night duty

there are reluctant thorns

inside our fists,

their growing is a naked fact

I dare not face

though the city is dry

                        I know.

~R K Raizada~

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