The wheels turn,
Well oiled and without a noise.
The dust flies as the hooves of Rita pull us around,
these meadows and orchards of apple trees; in this wooden cart;
laden with seats of velvet in turquoise and magenta.

Speeding along runways coloured in red, yellow and orange autumn leaves,
and the little kite tied to a bow rises and flutters, as if it were a yellow humming bird, following us, right behind us.

We stop at the bridge, to look down at the sparkling blue water,
smiling and making faces at our reflections,
while the pink and white butterflies hover around white water lilies.

Rita looks on tenderly; her coat shining black and a beautiful head, with a silver mane.
She is calm and steady,
she stands unmoving, as we climb back upon, into the wooden cart.

The wheels turn again,
as we pass from under a canopy of Gulmohar trees,
that rain flowers of red,
and the sparrows chirp away; into the sweetness of the morning sun.

Through a window in the trees,
we see mountains and clouds a distance away,
shafts of light shower down constantly.

Traveling through the gardens of the country side,
we see cuckoos, blue and white peacocks and all.

Siddharth Pathak.


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