Blinking Lights

The blinking lights of the airplane wing

Visible from a tiny window inside that humming craft,

Felt no longer exotic or exciting

Like the way, they did on that cold, rough terrace ground.

A sole escape from the heat of the small town

Often engulfed in darkness which comes after the lights are out;

Where nights were spent lying on the back,

Waving arms to keep the mosquitoes away,

And silence had befallen as an appreciation for the cricket's music.

Yes, exotic the nights felt for a couple of children,

With sleepy eyes and cotton frocks,

Inviting sleep by counting those tiny dots floating among the stars.

Humming air-crafts might take them somewhat closer

To the stars that they see;

But the nights in their small town spent in counting stars

Is something in which peace will always be.