a changing of the gods

While the croaked lullabies
of snow-shrouded ravens
caress imminent dreams,
sensations of another life creep
under the night
into my sleepless mind:
a whiff of sandalwood, the soft whispers
of wood chafing against wood,
singing bells, the vibrant colours
of old sarees.

The cold mosaic of black and green
seem a distant memory, clouded
by years in between of losing
faith in bedtime stories to knowledge
grasped greedily: the smells and sounds persist,
slowly the colours fade.

Mornings of vermilion now remembered
under skies wearing grey, the ravens presenting
the lone dash of life amid
cloudy airs and my ears ring
with her rusted tales.