Early with the cock-a-doodle-doo, the broom goes,
Swish, swish, swish.
Echoes rising in chorus, the integrity of a closed neighborhood,
The wind trickled few jack fruit leaves,
Smiles on ground, they lay along with the tears of transpiration.
Frolic on the night’s lap; mango leaves join as well,
Wording possession of the air.
Always it is lush green summer mornings
Canopied with the December fog, thick mist, clogged, here.
Aroma of the Mountain Snow White roses on early drops of dew,
Like the sweet smell of love, from moon’s eros, along
Petrichor wafting, with the broom’s swift clearing;
Awakens the soul’s sleep.
For the churchgoers an offering early,
I sweep the summer to barren winter
Penancing for the crude sins of the Holy Wind.