Twilight, that time between sunset and nightfall 
When Orange, nay Red, is the colour of the sky, 
When the heat of the day and the searing sun
Leave no doubt why there is the night, Why?

When the flock of birds fly around in search of a home 
A place to rest, a bed, for them to lay their head, 
A branch, a nest, for these flyers so pretty 
Till sunrise awakens them from the land of the, seemingly, dead.

When the hectic world looks for fun and frolic 
Before, they find what they value most, 
No, not sleep, but the tranquility that eludes them 
As of their hubris and avarice, the shards they reap.

‘Tis also the measure of the passage of time 
The slipping away of countless years, 
Moments of pathos, memories and bygones 
Fading hope and little desire, wrapped in unknown fears.
 
As twilight descends into the arms of night 
Wrapped in darkness all the way,
It’s curtains for the drama of life 
As, at the end of a Shakespearian play.

(The author is a businessman and part-time poet. He can be contacted at ashok.sawhny06.poems@gmail.com)