Splaying…
Splaying out, her coalesced pied saga…
The sky girdles herself, waltzing ribbons of incendiary indigo and palpable purple.
From celestial creases, do Seraphims unfurl their winged arias?
Abstruse connaissance reeling, rilled from finger-tips of billowing cumuli.
Aurora and I…
If I am the tantalizing trapeze,
she (Aurora), the blithe gust dappling the cosmology…
If I am the cataclysmic chimera,
she, the manacled magma,
the sensuous-sodden song,
smouldering in my bones…
Whenever I am tainted, she is flagellated,
While the world has been peering through her hues.
Her deepest hue, her vivacious veracity…
She, the scourge, the wizened whiplash…
Alas, they didn’t care to fathom her seared silken skin…
The world’s psychedelic windshields, nonchalantly guzzle her as a balsamic ballerina…
Contrapuntal…
Not an ethereal epigraph,
Aurora is the contrapuntal cuddle, between heavenly harbingers…
She is the chiaroscuro, a tale that Southern Cross narrates to Orion,
as they swirl through canopies of Ivory and Graphite.
The crepuscule that dribbles from our dreams and dazes…
Stitches our scattered nerve-fibres.
The feathers that flew-off from the Gouldian Finch…
Perched on our barren palettes.
The chortling cherry blossoms, that wrap our bare, trembling shoulders…
Cajole our palpitating deliriums.
The ostentatious oasis, that furtively craves to sneak into charred desert quilt…
Moistening our languished irises.
Peerless…
The serendipity called Aurora manifests through each of them…
Whether she plummets, draped in clementine-carmine to varnish our vanities.
Whether she pirouettes in placid-panacea, to soothe our scalded-shrieking wrists.
She reigns as the peerless parapet…
Aurora, the phantasmagoria, that galaxies pour into their chalice…
The armour that Sol Invictus dons…
Before they open the windows of those apocalyptic dawns.
~Jyoti Nair
Mumbai, India