THE RITUAL

It started as a murmur in the sky

Disturbing the ambience of flowery solitude.

Summoned guardians gathered at the square 

To beseech the wielder of the thin long whips. 
Apparels assumed their darkened hue.

Such was the custom – guardians’ illusion 

Cast the whips O keeper, they pleaded.

Their voices sounded more like growls. 


All that startled wind could do was wave

Compelling wind-travellers to join the race. 

Local pigeons shuddered to their nests,

And little children skipped to their abodes.

 

Still suffering from the curses of old,

Trees danced to the whims of the wind.

Losing their coats of green, brown and red

And the offspring they held so dear.
The whips dawned heavily upon us

Accompanied by fierce gleams of guardians’ eyes.

Till now only the roofs did tell the tale

Of how painful those tiny whips were. 
The ritual is nothing but a rose plant.

You can ask the owners of yonder farms

Or the angry owners of marred properties. 

The land, however, needs to be cleansed. 
Cocks are coming out in drenched feathery coats;

And the streets are being adorned by footprints again.

But men in yonder cottages snore still 

Under the enchantment of the wind’s lullaby.

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