Sunset

There is a poetry in sunset

That does not need to be written 

But is seen, admired and felt

What a sight nature has given?

It’s the same Sun 

It’s the same me

Yet all is different 

How could it be? 

Questions to decipher, answers yet to master

You rise and you set,

to rise again; so how that journey 

won’t make you any different? 

Once a wise friend asked

It’s setting, what’s the beauty in dark? 

The fact that there is light somewhere 

And it’s going to always come back

Is not the sunset sad? 

It depends on who you ask

The crepuscular or the sunflower, 

aren’t they still glad? 

The omnipresent and devine 

It’s dimmer lights will still shine

through the whole sky bidding goodbye,

Quiet and Magnificent it remain.

Yes, there is that poetry in sunset

Only felt in the heart; sang by cricket, 

synchronized by murmuration; cloud’s coloration

Verses won’t do justice, nor any paint. 

Yet a poetry is written; again and again, 

Like in the salutation for its beauty and grace 

Words are not enough for its bless 

One writes, but is still speechless.