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(26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

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Adaption

It's early morning.
The mist comes rolling.
She engulfs, embraces, smothers.
The high rises of Worli snuggle and whisper.
The blue of the sea, Colors their being,
Clouds shapeless hug their ceiling.
Love is made, wanton, in open, and free.
The sky misses the mountains,
Accepts concrete in lieu of their need.

Submitted: Thursday, February 14, 2013
Edited: Thursday, February 14, 2013


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Poet's Notes about The Poem

I saw the mist covered Worli high rises in the morning while driving to office and this poem came to me. Worli is a posh uptown neighbour hood in Mumbai where perhaps a square feet of space costs more than a lifetime of investment in many parts of the world barring New Tork and Tokyo.

Comments about this poem (A Poet's Prize by Hardik Vaidya )

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  • Roseann Shawiak (3/23/2014 11:44:00 PM)

    Just wanted to add that your poem entices me to want to come to India
    and see what you have written in your poetry. Sounds so very
    beautiful there in your country. RoseAnn

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  • Roseann Shawiak (3/23/2014 11:41:00 PM)

    Beautiful poem, love the imagery, especially how 'the sky misses the mountains,
    accepts concrete in lieu of their need'. It is how I feel also, I miss the majestic
    mountains of Phoenix, knowing of them when pristine and pure, now missing
    them because of man's greed and need to destroy them and the desert to
    build his ugly monstrosities, everywhere, defiling and marring the once
    beautiful mountains and deserts of my childhood. Building skyscrapers,
    parking garages, and spreading concrete all over the land. Love how you
    care about the environment and aren't afraid to write of what you think.
    I applaud your character and strength of mind, Hardik. RoseAnn

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