Thunder rumbles, followed by light
Illuminating the inky night,
Raindrops pound on my window pane
And through the merciless, driving rain
He walks alone, shielding his eyes
From bullet-like drops falling from the skies.
His whistle sounds like a distant wail
Carried hither by the howling gale.
Gusts of wind tear at his shawls,
But he walks on, for duty calls...
Not a single lamp, not a single glow
Not even accompanied by his shadow.
Illuminating the inky night,
Raindrops pound on my window pane
And through the merciless, driving rain
He walks alone, shielding his eyes
From bullet-like drops falling from the skies.
His whistle sounds like a distant wail
Carried hither by the howling gale.
Gusts of wind tear at his shawls,
But he walks on, for duty calls...
Not a single lamp, not a single glow
Not even accompanied by his shadow.
--
This poem was written on a stormy monsoon night in New Delhi. As I lay awake in bed, glad to be sheltered, I heard the whistle of the watchman pierce the rain. Exact date unknown. Added to the archives later.
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