A Portrait of Patala
Moon held her crown in these evernight lands
the sun, though small, lived in the very sands
which range from the shades of yellow to gold
or white and quaky like herons in cold
or purple and flaky like peacock trains
mislaying feathers whenever it rains
and even of black, mirroring the sky
or of the rivers when great people die.
All these colors the greatest painting paint
portrait of Patala ever so quaint
where demonic laughs merge with songs of flute
where frogs croak always and owls always hoot
in these very shores among ocean snores
with invading grunts from the forest boars.
A cloud of bats often blankets the queen
making the sea dull, for losing her keen
and glistening gleam, to the bat-black clouds
with listening clean and their screeches loud
yet, not disturbing, the flutists minute
who are busy with their atomic flute
in the very kingdoms within the air
that do not even a single nook spare
for this beauty brings forth a proud
and screams the soul of Patala aloud.
~Ajay
28/2/2018
