Color
The light of the setting sun
Shining behind the trees
And leaves mocking the window.
Birds are…
Chirping in praise of it
That light has colored their feathers.
I am so colored
Like the window pane,
Standing before the sun.
But my color,
It doesn’t change,
Though it changes for others.
The black brute
Hovering outside
Resembles a blazing meteor.
Even the leaves –
Determinedly green –
Appear yellow.
Why nothing happens to me
Except, my color.
Utsav Kaushik doesn’t consider himself a poet yet likes to babble obscurity. His voice is deep set in the grey shades of North India. Nature always inspires him for awkward cacophony. And he is a very talkative poet.