The clear blue sky is muted every now and then,
Criss-crossed by streaks of grey.
Breathlessly, I stare.
The sylvan silence is oft broken,
Not by the duets of koyels, bulbuls, or, mynas,
But by the sirens whizzing past till late into the night,
Reminding of the ravages of pestilence,
Of the agony, and the scars left behind.
Breathlessly, I hear.
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