A Similitude

One noonday, having downed a moreish lunch,

I ambulated up a lane where old

And nameless trees, with ancient tales untold,

Saluted me. I watched the masons munch

Ghee-dipped parathas. Suddenly, a bunch

Of winter's adamantine clouds were holed

By shooting beams, as if some rods of gold

Had been dropped by The Artisan. I hunched

Over a fence and mused: if that same dome

Of purple-blue stretched out to foreign spaces.

I'd longed to go, and if that very lane

Contained the same earth as those scenic places,

Then I've already visited Bahrain

Or treaded on the holy grounds of Rome.