Throwing away the drab garb of an apparatchik on North Cliff, Varkala

I wore drab suits for many years - every morning, I would assume the garb of an apparatchik -

I longed to wear a canary yellow shirt - I had a dream in which I attended a solemn meeting in a lime green jacket - 

When I retired I cast away my socks - I sought out raffish garments - 

In Varkala, therefore, I haunted the shops on North Cliff - the bright fabrics were like the severed wings of fantastic birds - 

I saw myself, idling upon the beach, barefoot, my purple pyjama trousers splashed with wine -