A mute nightingale

A leaf with drops of dew,

And the sky was a crimson hue,

The croaking of the toads,

The Clean and bright roads.



The whistle of the kettle,

As the darkness gradually settles,

Joggers on the ground,

And muscles pumping the pounds



A misty cool breeze,

That in a while would cease,

The first brush of the morning rays,

And they gradually seep through the maze.



The honk of the school bus,

At groceries the maddening rush,

the prowl of the healthy dogs

as the masters behind the reins slog.



I ambled in my trance,

not every day you get a chance,

the usual grind so high on scale

That I became a mute nightingale


no reminiscence of the dawn

I was busy plucking the thorns

as the rose dried and weathered away
Priorities we state
or leave it on our fate
but tomorrow can never be today.