A night in Shantiniketan

Silence was the conductor,
Of an orchestra called nature.
The rhythm of our footsteps
Was a cue for a bird to hit a crest.
an octave of a twig snapping,
Or the breeze playing a symphony
As it rustled the fallen leaves.
The breeze hits a crescendo.
The rusted hinges of the derelict gate
Sounds a high pitched note in tow.
The murmer of the leaves then,
Disturbs the fireflies
and sets them aflame!

Author: gdutta17

Born in the year 1968, my childhood was spent amidst the beautiful scenic landscape of a small town in India, Ranchi. Though an engineer by qualification, reading, writing and cooking are my passions. Another thing that I am passionate about is my country, India. As they say, a lifetime is probably not enough to explore the whole of India. Currently based in Kolkata, I can be reached at gdutta17@gmail.com.

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