At the door of victory of this fort
I should pause to match colors
—in order to find some definitions of romance—
of rocks and walls and leaves,
brown crisp blades of Aravalli hills,
brown foam and foam-heads of slender rapiers.
Blast of the afternoon sun that scatters reddish hues—
bare rollicking rocks in the blare of the sun,
in the flare of the blast of the sun.
Limpid pinks peep over the edges of the fort.
—wall and rock and the flower
wall and rock and the blast—
Romance of the rock of the blazing sun marred
—crimson marred by the pinks—
by the green water
that runs down the mud-cracks, rock-cracks
in the season of July rains.