“Those were the best of times,
Those were the worst of times…”
Those were the worst of times…”
The late evening light is about to die down in the western horizon, the air is infiltrated with the chittering of the tired Sparrows and the violet sky is turning into shabby darkness with the ticking of the clock.
On the ruined roof of an unfinished house three representatives of the vivacious youth are seated next to each other. Their feet lowered and rested on the mossy-walls, their eyes fixed at the melting horizon. They are all students—they are all friends—flew away from their coaching classes! They all are, evidently, more interested in the slow and steady process of shifting of the busy day into enticing Spring nights than the factual events of the monotonous chemical reactions!
Gradually darkness sucks up even the last drop of light and enfolds the three human figures. There are no movements to be seen—no life to be observed—except three burning cigarette tips!
The ruin gets dark. The Eucalyptuses around get darker. Only gloomy moonbeams listen to the beating of hearts—hearts of three intimate friends. They listen, while, Time marches on.
Time marches on—from green youth to gray hairs, from careless whisper to careful decisions.
Time marches on.
On the ruined roof of an unfinished house three representatives of the vivacious youth are seated next to each other. Their feet lowered and rested on the mossy-walls, their eyes fixed at the melting horizon. They are all students—they are all friends—flew away from their coaching classes! They all are, evidently, more interested in the slow and steady process of shifting of the busy day into enticing Spring nights than the factual events of the monotonous chemical reactions!
Gradually darkness sucks up even the last drop of light and enfolds the three human figures. There are no movements to be seen—no life to be observed—except three burning cigarette tips!
The ruin gets dark. The Eucalyptuses around get darker. Only gloomy moonbeams listen to the beating of hearts—hearts of three intimate friends. They listen, while, Time marches on.
Time marches on—from green youth to gray hairs, from careless whisper to careful decisions.
Time marches on.
We have gained much in our lives, but uncompensated are the losses. May we build castles of perfect wisdom on the realistic ground; the madness, the selfless love among the ruins is never ever to come back.
But still, Time marches on….
Awesome! You've presented our good old days in fantastic style! Keep up this blog!!! Cheers!
ReplyDeletehi,
ReplyDeletethe creation/construction as a 'literary piece' is good though impact and imitation of classical english writers are visible. another suggestion is to try to compose in easy and common people's language. that would be more convenient, digestible and interest evoking. indian english writing is no way lagging behind the original english world.
cheers! keep it up.
sandy.