And they sang the world is our....

Jumping from the boulders lining the muddy fields,
paddy green and half soaked in water,
the grasses - lush and shimmering the glow from the skies...

The knicker-wearing boy pauses, and his flying paper kite drops,
all one sees is limitless skies,
white whipped cream and yoghurt strokes on the sun burnt skies of blue....

In the roads,
tarred and warm on coldest of nights,
gusts of wind beneath the concrete, whip across the faces,
as speeds across - the motorcyclist,
hands numbed to the greyscales of mind...

Pausing by the hearth,
one goes back to the moments,
the mud,
the rusted bars on a breaking building,
and the dried leaves by the side of granite graves,
covered under - the stench of a dead carcass...

Morning turns to night,
night to mid-day,
and in the sound of the grasses,
and in the smoke billowing out of the chimney of memories,
in the dream's tavern,
the boy with the knicker sits...

Kite is torn,
plastic lies about,
the greyscales mix in a tinge of green,
cold tar by the hot gusts,
and night is forgotten,
the motorcyclist finds balance,
cool water by rusted iron bar,
in an empty graveyard by the side of a field,
a little distance from road,
on the muddy steps,
sitting with the grasses lying about,
a cold wax pool,
remnants of another night of cold wind,
and life within,
while they sang that the world is our...

- Karthik Adithya Singaraju