The night of the assassin

Brooding, sullen, menacing,
Moonless and overcast,
The night waits in the shadows.
Nothing seems to happen, but the birds
Feel the menace, and screech.
No one heeds their warning.
No one knows what will happen,
On the night of the assassin.
How different had been that night.
That night, long ago,
When the moon had shone radiant
Amidst the naughty stars,
And the birds had sung gaily,
And the trees had swung merrily,
And the lovers had pleaded with the clouds
To hide the moon away for a while.
Does the night not remember
That it had loved
The songs of the lovers?
And that it had whistled along with them?
On this windless, moonless night,
Where are the lamps, that had refused
To be blown-off by the wind then?
Why has no one lighted a lamp tonight?
Who has sent the night
On its mission of hate?
Why does the breeze not blow away
The smoke that stands still, greedily,
To witness the unknown horrors?
When will it be safe for the lovers
To come out, hand in hand,
And trust the night, once again?

About Abhishek

I will let the blog speak for itself...or, at times, for me. View all posts by Abhishek

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