Title:The Evening Sorrows.

Each evening when the sun spreads:
its crimson weariness of daily chores.
a routine sadness is evoked in me.
piercing through my ordinary sorrow

Each time the sameness is distinct
As if there is no end to this .
and pushes me to a farther shore
Which but promises a humdrum tomorrow

The stiff sameness of vapid moods
Colorless tasteless lifeless
the palette of a dead painter:
the crooked spine of decayed marrow.


I wonder amidst my timid paleness
when will this routine abate.
The answer still eludes me
hidden in this evening's burrow.

Behold:an empty nest falls off
From a Rosemallow tree outside.
Is that a reason enough
to assume the death of a sparrow?

-Rohan Thackeray