The monsoon mackerel sky,
Humectated hills and fells,
The sun winking at earth,
The mist-ridden Shimla
Runs into haze.

I standing lonesome
At a corner of the town
Watch the fresh,
Fresh cumuli of fog
Arising from deep
Crevices in the dells,
Misting the suburbs,
Everything,
What’s left is I,
In my singleness,
I, the sole thing extant,
As an entity in
The evanescent town.