The beautiful glass

The smokey,  Blue,  intoxicating, sparkling,  fragrant drink;

This vast,  beautiful, wide rimmed glass;
The stem lies in the hands of the Alpha
While the cold, white,  brilliant ice tinkers around;
The silver particles form beautiful shapes.

He shakes the glass a little for His amusement;
What churn out are stories,
of lands far and wide, emotions soft and lucid;
Stories told next to orange cinders throwing forth warm rotis in a mud hut;
Stories told at a tall table with two  glasses in two hands;
Stories told lying under the shade of the same sky, to the soldier lying next,
Of not going to see the cute child again,
of not caressing the forehead of the beloved ever again,
While fireworks continue behind the sand bags,  across the barbed wires,
And the man holding the stem of the glass calls the soldier near,
His hands pointing at the stars glitter gore.

Stories told at a nukkad (square) with a kulhad (clay tea cup) in hand
Of past romances when the head still bore hues of black
Of past matches where he scored a century and bowed to a crowded stadium

Stories told by a defeated heart to his wife lying next,
of the dreams of playing in a band,
Of holding the strings of a guitar,
In the same helplessness hands that could not  hold anything more than the stick of a night watchman,
of whistling and alerting people to stay on guard,
In the same night,  which like many others,  tells him he is one more night farther from his dreams.

This man though, with the stem in His hands, of this beautiful wide brimmed glass, stirs it a little at times ;
The stirrer of His grace,
turns fates upside down,.
brings the ones down to the top and pushes the proud ones down;

Sits back and enjoys another sip

Till the contents settle again and tell similar stories into the darkening liquid

(Metaphor -  Evening as the smokey liquid in His hands)

RM

Photo courtesy -  https://goo.gl/images/FHKhV1