The Ganges

I spy through a misty perspective,
Whilst battling a musty hotel room
With a silent cough and an evening breeze
Setback by a trifling window mechanism.

Clouds huddled in the sky,
Like schoolers, clad in gray uniform,
Around the pot-bellied headmaster,
Listening and mocking his village folklore.

Calm waters rested in blue,
Neatly wrapped in  a blanket of currents,
That seemed like looping scribblings,
From a child's painting.

Moored boats tugged slowly
At the anchor, wallowing in soft mud,
Seeking permission to sail for the horizon,
Only to be yanked to the bank.

Nature seemed to borrow from Tagore's tales,
And lacking a Kraken, released a tolerable fish stench,
A return call for diving fishermen,
And an incense for their evening prayers.

The sun decides for a long swim,
Takes light beneath the surface,
The trees mourn with a swaying routine,
They yearn for those distant lands.

A candle, a bulb, and a narrow dwelling,
A bowl of rice and freshly caught fish,
Salty fingers do not complain of mosquitoes,
Because their bites itch away at solitude.

It is a false perception,
That you cannot see in the dark,
Twinkling lights radiate poetry,
Eclipsing the cities by far.

The overcast sky parts for the moon,
For its timely ritual to appease the mighty river,
To be chaotic or guise melancholy,
To be philosophic or out of depth.

Draw a few birds on this dynamic canvas,
And hand me an oar,
I am a man who was made from this soil,
And in the mighty Ganges, shall I fall.