Incessant gushes of the wind
through the iron grills, the curtain
fluttering against the backdrop
of the fading night, hazy grey.
Mild chirrups of the winged lives
can be heard like a symphony
from far across the murky dawn,
unspoiled still from the dissonance of growth.
The civilization shall wake up soon,
with noise, cankers and selfish greed,
to drown the bliss of harmony
and the sky would burn yellow from the grief.