The night is stubborn and flinty.
It refuses to let a whit of light
Erase the darkness out of my blinded eyes.
I solicit light, to sojourn
For my eyes to see, but for a while.
He replies, “The moon’s I am. Let him dispatch”.
But alas, the moon is under servitude
To hazy, nebulous, lumpish layers.
People call them clouds.
I call them a disturbance
And when I ask them for mercy
They laugh at me, perhaps tickled by pathos.
But man and his quest has never tired
And it never will, its god’s decree.
It was this quest that made exist
the torch and its two batteries.
And when the night pours rancor on me
And the clouds laugh at me
This torch and its two batteries
Feed me solace.
A little arbit, but that’s the best you can get on a hot, chennai afternoon, when you are waiting for tea!