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At the drop of morn,

When my palms are raised,

In veneration, then,

I wait for peace

To slowly trickle down

Into my lifted palms,

That cup the sunglow.



The Sun’s shaded Peach Shorbet,

Like dew drops it descends,

Hushed, as birds quietly

Circling velvety sea-green

Sea weeds, or flotsam.

It bathes mist-ridden cyan morning skies,

And then suffuses my  entire being.


O Peace how mysteriously

You glide from the heavens above,

To make this earth a haven,

A sanctum divine!


Mumtaz N Khorakiwala


My poetry suggests how the spirit connects with nature and Divine, in the stolen hours when the suns rays create a magical space in dingy cities. There’s a dreamy aura to the city, as if there were a sort of alchemy.

In most cities, cacophony drowns all existential questions, mornings are the time to experience Solace.  Introspection happens in these moments of stillness when the sunglow has just  begun bathing the skyscrapers stretching and shrugging off slumber.



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