Monsoon 

​My scarred feet

Run on the dew-filled grass,

Feeling the smoothness,

The comfort, the smell of wet soil

Healing my feet


The droplets that fall

Touch my hair,

Bringing flowers along

From the trees above

And their fragrance


And the clouds huddle together

Promising more

Of this monsoon-ish weather

As young boys kick at footballs

In the murky streets


Corn is served, fresh and hot

And so is coffee in the café;

Although many have cozy beds to cuddle in at home,

They ride around in raincoats

As hurriedly as they can.


And women of the house rush

To rescue the clothes that hang

In their balconies;

But it is too late, dear ladies,

The clothes are long drenched by now.


I run along the patch of land

That’s green, that’s drenched,

Every building sparkling before me

As though newly polished

Before dusk.


Painting serene monochrome pictures

On the streets that we everyday see,

Adding a dull colour to the sky we fear

The rain, an artist in itself,

Makes green plants emerge from holes and cracks.


— I hate this, but I wrote it and didn’t know what to do with it, so I’m posting it. I just tried writing something happy and ended up writing something boring–



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