A market-square with its drizzly blanket,
A toast to a melancholic Tagore tune
A desire for an instrument at fingertips
And a heart crying out loud and mute;
Music casts its shadow on hidden treasures,
Begs for an answer in a cold tryst with silence.
When dawn meets and parts from morning
You know, that brief moment of madness
In your eyes, that succumbed to sanity :
That, my friend, is my melancholy.
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