On days like these when the curtains drape around it's surrounding like it's holding on to something or someone who it has lost already,
The south winds hit my face as I look up at the gray, overcast sky which still believes that peace will return back to this world and there'll be tranquility yet again.
Rain starts to pour down on the earth as reluctant as it ever was. While the wind hoots and calls out different names of the same someone whom the world forgot.
The irony is that you'll love the rain because,
It will provide you with a chance to sit down with utmost romanticism and trace the names of your lovers-on your window sill.But everyone living on the streets will know better.
They don't have much to possess or call their own.
But they'll never complain.
They'd rather embrace the scorching heat than glorify the first shower of the season that'll take their roof away in front of their eyes.On days like these when the clouds push down the rain off the cliff displaying an act of unpredictable betrayal,
The kids from across the street will come cladded in raincoats,armed with umbrellas to see how far their paper boat will float knowing very well that no matter what,
It's inevitable for it to get drenched and crumble up in the puddle and finally get completely distorted and torn.
The kids know that.
Still they don't give up.
Remember when Rabindranath Tagore said;"alas how foolish,the human heart is. It never ceases to make mistakes."On a day like this someone might've celebrated the rain with his family sitting on the porch with expensive porcelain saucers filled with hot tea..
While,
The father of one of the kids from across the street carried a white box heavier than most things,but it certainly couldn't be more heavier than his heart which had been completely shattered to pieces now for his son,who came to check on his paper boat,
met an untimely demise.Right now,it's raining outside.
The wind outside my window, is hooting.
The curtains are behaving just the same as they ever did.
The first rain of monsoon.
Monsoon? In geographical terms,
Yes,of course.But,
Inside the hearts
of all beings..
Who'll know whether
it's spring
Or the sky piercing
winter.
YOU ARE READING
Rapture
Poesía°Unpublished letters. Unspoken words. °of poetry and the rains. Highest rankings; #17-clouds Out of 1.82k stories #199-letter Out of 10.6k stories #426-birthday Out of 9k stories