As the sun strives
to meet the horizon,
The smog of Bombay rises to greet it;
The burning orb of fire
is now a mere red ball of light
struggling to sink into the Arabian Sea--
so that it may rise again--
tomorrow.
Now it’s orange, now it’s red;
Criss-crossed by dark bands of polluted air--
and now it’s almost brown-red, with an orange cap;
Soon it will be seen,
no more.
Birds fly o’er its face,
racing to unknown destinations;
There – the sky turns orange, then pink,
then red and gray...
as the sun,
now oblong and distorted,
finally touches the horizon—
and sets.
It is gone,
and so must I.
I’ve sensed the presence of God...
and witnessed a moment of Eternal Truth.
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