a dawn song

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as dawn breaks and starts spreading its blush through the dark eyes of a distant cloud-riddled sky, i pick at my skin and hair, trying to be at ease with the chill penetrating me, in more ways than one. the music of early morning routine starts flourishing — the shrill of the water motor, the flush of the sink, the naivety of the kitchen song, the singular bark of the street mutt — gradually the night becomes one with the day, the day becoming one with my insomniac breaths. the bristly winds carry the taste and touch and sound of an impending cold, a sulfur-infused smog, a trilling bird’s sorrow. it is unlike any other wind, any other gust of air that passes through the seasons, through the reverberations of living. i am still pinching myself conscious, the wind is still playing its solemn instrument.

picking at my grief —
the early winds of raw cold
raise the sky in red

~

dawn arrives singing
notes of a known winter’s song —
lights seen through the haze

.

© Anmol Arora

For Heeding Haiku With Chèvrefeuille at MLM Menagerie
Image source (City at dawn Painting by Barbara Pastorino)

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Wakefulness

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Clicked a few hours back when I was on the bus… did not sleep a minute. Blurry because of the bus tremors.

coursing through the cities,

glorified by the lights that gleam

through the lustrous layers of fog,

dense with the sleeping breaths,

and awake, feeling its presence

from within the windows shut,

counting the seconds till we can,

because that is all we got to do,

.

we are the comrades of the night,

warm to know the other one is there,

strung with the same wakefulness,

even if distant, even if it wouldn’t last,

while I pass through these cities, towns,

half sitting, lying, on the sleeper berth,

chewing a sapless gum, to count up

their comforting numbers in my head