India is a patch-work, of every single hue,
Vibrant reds and ochres, and pensive shades of blue;
Skeins of gold light up the sky, when the sun wakes up each morn,
The heavens weave a tapestry, of a glittering brand new dawn;
Gilded pink and shimmering peach, the clouds weave in their lace,
India is spun golden, in the sun's new morning rays;
At noon the sun is up and bright, the ocean is sun kist;
Villages and towns bask in, a gilt-edged white hot mist;
Paddy fields and valleys, reflect the golden green,
While ribbons of grey roads, mere wisps of silvery sheen;
As twilight spins her burnished spool, on the fabric whirling high,
A dusky lilac, wine red sky, breathes out a drawn out sigh;
As night enfolds my country, with her quilt of deep, dark blue,
The Master weaver gently smiles, from His vantage point of view.
Roann Mendriq
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/country-quilt/
