A Sip Of Tea At Nine Point Two Three

The weather being fine, it occurred to me being it mine.
Suddenly it all seemed rejuvenating, hark I found myself on the hills, cultivating
The thought of it made me think, I prepared some tea to drink.
To add life to the view, I plunged outside to get the dew.

The air that blew, the fog that flew;
The chill that rushed, the emotions that burst.
Hark, was I in my paradise?


The gravel spoke of the wanderers, the grass about the ants' cheer.
The plants sung the songs of rejoice, the rock giving lovers a voice. 
The poles robed themselves as deodars, the houses as hills that go far.
That feeble light in dark appears to be a spark.
Everything appeared so bright, despite being it not right...
Certainly I was in my paradise...

The drain took the place of waterfalls, the outlet valve of the rainfall.
The gate became the arches, the boundary was the cliff.
The world seemed different or the eyes were new?
Absolutely I was in my paradise...

With every moment that passed, there were more colours that lodged.
The portrait was getting greener, the glimpse of it getting brighter. 
The portrait hence canvassed cannot be penned, 
It's something to cherish, and certainly will never perish...

The thoughts were free while sipping at nine point two three...
Will always urge for the same tea at nine point two three…