Topsy- Turvy

Ere I could lift the violet
From the western sky
With my slender brush
To paint a splendid sunset,
A dark horse
Came galloping
From the far east
And trampled the canvas
Under its blind hoofs.

Ere I could merrily hum
With the home-coming sparrows
The familiar chirping melody,
The great Himalayan frost
Of the icy-north
Rendered them dumb.

Ere I could compose in my poetry
The infant-smile
Of an early bud,
The icy-claws
Of mid- December
Ravished my garden
Into a pathetic insignificance
Of bruised stems
And bleeding twigs.

Ere I could confide with you
The opening chapter
Of my unfinished autobiography,
The thick hairline
On my tender forehead
Receded like the ebbing waves
Of a vanquished tide,
Leaving the sandy shore
Of erased foot-prints
And scattered shells.