After Hours

It was raining.
Wind was straining
and
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,
rose
to dance.

The night turned transcendent,
the walls of objects, translucent,
and the words dazzled like colours
like rainbows
inside the stained marble,
unfurled like peacock tails,
enamelling
inside the vitreous lines.

And poetry
was germinated with visual sounds in silence,
in the hide
where the enlightenment was the only audience,
in a dark
autumnal
nightfall.