The Long-Forgotten Curly-Horned Buffaloes On A Rainy Afternoon

The Long-Forgotten Curly-Horned Buffaloes On A Rainy Afternoon

It rained for sure
And just about, the non-existent
Smoke aspired, to recreate existence
For itself… to match the grey and
Fogginess of here and much around.

But what a sight of tinkling bells
Around the necks of these: Such beautiful and sturdy brutes,
Black and big… with toned down
Pace—curly horns and plodding gait,
The aura so created thus: of
Shiny classic buffaloes.

The smells remind me of my youth,
A prolonged childhood does indeed
Infuse myself into the now
To fast become the quintessence,
The me I’d longed for until now—
Rustic, brave and overgrown.

It’s different now that I have seen
The buffaloes with blackest sheen
Plodding now on blackened roads,
Much like their own smooth ivoried selves,
The mist a-forming into space,
They smile, it seems, into the air,
And one becomes the scene out there!

Who knew that blessings shower themselves
In scenes created on their own
With herds of beasts that plod
Our ground, to play some music
And resound the COSMOS on a tarred road…
Forget not then— Our dearest brutes—
These living creatures circumscribe
To much that lays beyond our grasp
To kindle and to celebrate some order
Higher than what’s seen!