Wintry Tale Poem by Ajit Das

Wee-hours of a cold, harsh morning -
a shroud of fog still hangs
on the landscape;
icy breeze blows through leaves,
over beds of grass;
signs of life are yet to stir.
A bleak, melancholic look
grips the atmosphere.

A homeless mortal lies
on the cobbled footpath,
his knees pressed to his head,
arms around his ankles,
drawing the semblance of heat
from the torn blanket -
a tale of misery scripted
in an indifferent urban setting.

The grey eastern sky
slowly brightens into a glow.
The rising sun spraying rays of warmth,
the hapless man wakes up
to yet another day for survival,
carrying his living cargo
till the winter mist creeps in
again in the gathering dusk.