the cold evening lied
on the wasteland spread in shape of grandma's cotton soft veil...
white...thin...fluffy...and expandable
always to accomodate a few more
of urchins like me...
lost in wayward thoughts...
but once under the veil
given a shelter cozy...
always tempered down...sobered...
to be part of a fairy tale told...
to take young hearts far away
from the city buses...flyovers...
to somewhere half dreamy...
half real kind...
perhaps a lovely lonely railway crossing...
and a small lantern lit
by a lonely old guard in turban...
and with a thick huge coppery white moustache...
which saw the ups and downs of history...
the cold evening swept up
misty thick fabular forms...
in blurry lights...
a tower looked legless standing right...
and trees seemed submerged halfway
in fog machine smoke on some stage...
like actors enacting a special scene of the ultimate act
of a play...a full length five act one
written by the bard for the groundlings and the royal...
to be turned into a classic after a century or two...
the cold thick misty evening wrote
a scene of a play such...
only to enchant city bred eyes
with a rural heart...
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