The moon is descending over the hills,

And these irises are drifting to sleep at gunpoint of dreams,

The shade of the sky is slowly turning from silvery white to orange tint,

With Auburn sphere rising, radiating its scintillating beam,

Tepid lemon water in my hand and beautiful city sights,

Trees seem to be sprinting, 

And these eyes are longing at the windowpane,

Cold Breeze is blowing through portiere and swaying hair,

And thoughts are brewing up in mind,

What makes a perfect day?

Is it a beautiful start or waking from a good power nap?

Having all the materialistic things you dreamt?

With each passing hour, ticking and striking of clock arms,

A sense of realization underwent,

It is when you are living, not just alive,

Growing, like the creepers on the wall,

 Not the way roses are scenting the house, laying dead in the vase,

When your will to work and zeal is free and intact,

Like the crow flapping wings to take flight,

Aiming for the sky,

Not bounded and complacent, 

Like a cuckoo singing behind bars, all tired,

When a smile is not just a curve on the visage,

When your mind is not held captive by the miseries you faced,

But count the blessings you have,

Well lived moments and enlightenment.