The night drinks its last
breath of warmth.
He whistles his best-
some parodies he wishes
to scribble,
but the chill…
It permits him not
to jot down a few lines:
his fingers captives of
his waistcoat’s scrubby pockets.
Cats at nights are distractions;
old superstitions, sayings:
men avoid these
these days.
He tries.
He fears not.
But his mind falls prey
to a cat’s crying call:
young women being
strangled to deathbeds!
Pretty ladies are serious too.
Late night shifts
and extra moments of business
are cruel.
Gentle minds so criminal now-
pleasant men do crimes
on heels and skirts.
The country is falling.
But his will isn’t.
And there are the drunk brats.
Claim that they belong
to this century’s Renaissance,
luxurious and ultra,
where cakes are rubbed
on unclothed legs
and chocolates on
covered breasts.
The country is falling.
But his will is not.
A torch and a stick,
a notebook and a radio,
and his night’s tiffin
once warm, now sick,
are his friends tonight…
Two hundred a night
must weaken not his diet
nor his soul to be honest.
There’re no toffees of fame
To gobble up in hundreds.
This isn’t a work to enjoy-
to stay alert in an idle night.
But…
there is an unsaid promise,
an oath of pride;
His fame is treasured
in people’s faith…
faith that he is present at the gate…
faith that his whistles are still awake!
(Dedicated to the brave security guards)
