Rain

inseminated clouds, looms large over my head
as bleached sun slowly fades into oblivion,
insolent beads of raindrops, trickles down the leaf tops,
heralding winds caresses my skin, with bubbles drawing
their first impression on the placid lake, the hostile summer
bereaves the lost child as monsoon happily flutters by.

Rain has something magical about it, never failing to inspire, never tiring and ever reticent of hidden dreams. I have missed the best season back home in Mumbai, this year. The Monsoon. Even as I used to walk through the muddled water spread across several patches in the walkway of my colony, the slightest form of disappointment ever failed to crease my forehead; it instead filled me with childish exuberance. My bemired shoe, wet shirt and dripping hair all welcomed rain with an unknown ecstasy that is difficult to explain. If anything else, the loss of unpredictable, intermittent and ever always impregnated clouds, fills the heart with a taste of reminiscence. My friends have been telling me that it is raining quiet heavily back home this year and as I look at the barren clouds passing by from my apartment here in Hong Kong, I cannot but wish, if only for once, in a hurry or rush I could assume wings of air, fly for one day and then be back to work again on the next. But alas! seldom does reality know, it can shape no wings like those of dreams ....