Sunday morning, the city sleeps in
And blessed silence abounds,
Softly tempered by the hush of a breeze
And Nature’s soothing sounds.
The fluttering fronds of potted ferns,
The restless rustling trees,
The orchestra of the warbling birds,
The buzzing busy bees.
The parrots come to peck the grain,
Gazing with benevolent eyes;
The mynahs quietly wait their turn,
The crow, impatient, cries.
The koel’s melody casts a thrall
From its perch in the mango tree,
While ‘neath the largestronium
A peacock strolls majestically.
But all too soon, the humans stir:
The enchantment fades away;
I’ll be back another Sunday morn
When the magic again holds sway.
At Random 