Phantasmagoria

Found but yet to find how far...,

The futility this grey nebula-sensitivity,

The way it fades into hues and tastes—

Only to the whiff of a stimulus encountered.

And to find, only a wisp, its disenchanted angle,

Along the fated courses it meanders;

A lurking predator’s prey, victimized,

The price for its futility proved…

Now say enlightened but doomed then—

Like a strip of cloud the coloration metamorphoses;

Its true shape to be honed against how many odds,

How many endless winters to escape through…?

So to find is to suffer; to suffer is to learn,

But why tending to fall again the same pit

Welcoming, to it, like a smiling host, trainer.

Lo, it lumbers on to the whiff of illusory breezes!

*

How it's here now (South India):

As of being terribly hot these days and so it would be till the start of the upcoming monsoon, I learned from some guys here that even a crow can’t caw these days as drained by the heat but remain gaping—numbed and choked. It looks like real. I haven’t heard cawing since I returned here from Dhasa a fortnight ago.