The sun begins to dip its golden head,
And paints the ripples in a deeper red.
The Bay of Bengal sighs against the shore,
A rhythmic pulse, a soft and salty roar.
I stand where land and liquid silence meet,
As cool, white foam comes dancing to my feet.
The sky is bruised with purple and with gold,
A story that the tides have always told.
The ships sit heavy on the dark line far,
Waiting for the rising of the first pale star.
The wind is singing through the casuarina trees,
A melody of salt and evening breeze.
The day is folding like a tired wing,
While shadows to the jagged jetties cling.
No artist's brush could catch this fleeting glow,
As amber rivers through the heavens flow.
It's where the city's chaos meets the deep,
And puts the restless, burning sun to sleep.
The light may die, but in the sand it stays,
The memory of Patenga's crimson haze.