Gulmohur

The gulmohur rises high into the horizon
Its orange pales the evening sky
Its leaves fight to and fro against the wind
It brews a storm in the heavens.

Its symphony is a violent sound
It speaks of previous battles
With the sun and the moon
Whose radiance scathes its very roots

And yet the incident stillness is almost palpable
Its mystifying riddle holds a promise
Or will the gulmohur importune the ‘world’
Another day with its endless battle