Magic light hour in the hills,
People, tiny and sluggish,
But suddenly bathed in generous, gold light,
Your dark face bronzed by the setting sun,
Your hair, flowing like a river
Eyes, fastened to the dying god's face
The grand performance,
Luxury and splendour of a whole universe
Unfurled for just two measly souls
Tired, bruised, still laughing hard desperately,
Like a peasant in a king's party
Trying hard to hide the tear in her clothes
But,
Breaking the moment, yet capturing it
With one swift blow,
You pointed to the setting sun and said:
'That fellow is in full form today.'
