The venomous hiss of an inky black backdrop,
Spill over hunting skeletons in cautious attires.
The liberals and the orthodox,
Rant and pray and hunt.
For the twilight is never far,
And the hours are never countless,
Desire is never content.
These forlorn suggestive statures
In the middle of nowhere, at an awkward hour.
Coincidence?
A staged drama indeed,
Ending in ironies and tragedies.
These actors are protagonists, all of them.
The stories, Shakespearean in their narration.
Bombay , stained by sin, awaits a monsoon.