Prasad Natarajan - Pratiksalya

Dew soaked naked blades of still grass,
Collect reluctant rays of the morning sun,
While sounds of Coucal break the glass,
Tailor birds rest, in nests, they spun,

Last of the soft cotton burst from its breast,
Fickle leaves dance their way through streets,
While adamant mist on window is a guest,
Great egrets flew away leaving behind cold receipts,

Wild goose cuddled their bitter nights now,
Shy moon beams lit those pratiksalya walls,
While harvested fields no longer kiss the plough,
King of frost has arrived! I hear his winter calls.

Prasad Natarajan

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