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The valley dawn
Is a drastically different one,
Heralded by the bird's songs,
Scattered in the crisp air,
And before being carried away
To the next verdant dale, is
Heard by a restive city-sleeker,
Escaping from the fever of city,
Dreaming of drowning in the sea,
And woken up abruptly,
By the sweet songs dispersing as dulcet notes,
Released by the wind-god, now moving fast,
The disheveled figure staying weekend,
In the rude stone-lodge in the Saal forest,
Red-rimmed, breathing garlic and Champaign,
The pot-bellied and bald VP of an MNC
Emerges quickly from behind the
Curtained French windows,
Cigarette dangling in stained lips, disorganized,
And gets conquered by the retreating symphony unique,
And the rosy dawn, breaking over the varied scene,
Splashing colours from the summit top,
To the valley floor with its active baby hands,
Moving up and down in furious speed,
And---
The entire scene gets daubed in red-orange,
In a few seconds, before his startled eyes,
And inner harmony is restored,
In that vibrant solitude divine.
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