Daring drunken monotony,
Sweetened by the winter's evening.
Creepers growing on cracks and walls,
On roofs and broken windows.
Apart from the laughter,
There is the scathing voice of fear, of sobs,
Of broken ties, dripping sweat and riding thoughts
On the awaited fantasy of a future life.
Making sense of what is wrong,
Forgetting always what is right,
Assuming its all written in the past,
And where would we be, if we were wise.
Thunder and lightning and storms all cost
An acoustical treat nearby,
If we aren't truly lost, then we should have found
What never dies.
-- Mohan
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