It was raining.
Wind was straining
on the side walk of "performing-art,"
art was performing
in the light that
was echoed in the puddle
that was cuddled by glazing night,
where two concave objects of love,
brimmed over one another.
Through the magic wand of a pen
found lying on a dark unknown alley,
the night suddenly kindled,
became all known,
and the still-life,
The night turned transcendent,
the walls of objects, translucent,
and the words dazzled like colours
inside the stained marble,
unfurled like peacock tails,
inside the vitreous lines.
was germinated with visual sounds in silence,
in the hide
where the enlightenment was the only audience,
in a dark