Whispers Of Dawn

Molten gold

Trickles down the skin

Of a Mughal Empress.

The first shot of

Camel-milk tea

On the cool, sandy sea.

The Bhairab swells

To a crest

And then recedes.

Unseen hands wiping

Sleep from my eyes,

In one loving caress.

Green fingers

Tremble and reach out

To the life-giving Light.

Dawn.

Though this sounds a little presumptous, I dedicate this to T. S. Eliot, whose aftereffects compelled me to put pen to paper. Also, his influence is easily discernible in the title of the poem which is not all deliberately chosen. Believe it or not, I was actually thinking of calling it: What The Dawn Said. Too much of Eliot. I need some fresh (Blandings) air.