Drama

Evening in the Theatre

The evening air hums with whispered hope as the curtains sigh,
A tug of colour on the velvet canvas, a foreshadowing of the drama that will unfurl.

Backstage, mouths clamp the scripts, the favourite lines carved into the palms of weary hands—
A beat of breath between dramatis personae and the polished pulpit of the centre stage.

A hushed cymbal-chime of rehearsal echoing through the tomb of the floorboards,
Where boots click with scripting precision, and laughter spills like a buried potshard.

Lights beckon like the first blush of dawn, and slow silhouettes begin to glide,
Their shadows stretch and shrink across the walls like a mind‑swan, a whispered beret of suspense.

In the box‑office, the crowd murmurs – a hush as contagious as a cough –
Their eyes, bright, read the programme as if it is a secret tea‑party.

The art itself, a coin with two faces:
One, the raw human folly made safe by a performance;
The other, the velvet reality of an audience’s belief, swung into a permanent, glittering rehearsal of memory.

So as the ends draw close and applause drapes on the stage,
The drama settles as a loose flag in the wind of a quiet night,
And the curtain falls—not as a final sigh, but as a promise
Of another story to rise on the cusp of a new flickering glow.