The drizzle. The petrichor.
Cold breeze. Mild sneeze.
Birds chirping back home.
The hue in the horizon.
The balcony. The panoramic view.
The hot tea, cold in no time.
Nature at its tranquil best.
My father’s sunset.
But no sand around for petrichor. Only cement.
Circumambient concrete stifling the breeze.
Birds’ chirps drowned in traffic din.
The balcony, facing another balcony.
The hot tea, hot forever.
Man in his mortal quest.
My son’s sunset.