Encounters with Reality

I don’t remember the night, When my poems were with me, And even in my dreams, I was a poem. I don’t remember the night, When the mad rain sang The song of peril And even in the sleep, City moaned as it saw it’s nearing end. I don’t remember the night, When you kept talking and I, being engrossed into unawareness, Had your marks caught in the words. When the morning came, The rain has been slow, Sun rays are trapped in cage og clouds A morning has been put on the world, but a delayed one, Sleep broke, I came to know, There is poem aside my bed, And it bears your signs, There are drops on palm, Where rain has rested for a while. Now voices of rain and yours mingle And, my day refuses to move ahead.

City slows it pace as it pours lazily from the sky. The road, shining black and polished by smooth tires. Crowd of umbrellas dexterously covers forgetful, Stranger walks, watching those close to his hearts A walk, towards a distant hill, mystified by clouds A walk, down lanes of memories and dreams A walk, with conversations walking in the streets The rain, a great storyteller romances with the city Romance fills the air, with a touch of being naughty It calls, it speaks, it sings a melancholy song Time flees and it seems to have gone so long, so long…..

You are not the one which I ever desire, You are the one which I never imagined. You are not the one who quenched the thirst You are the one who put me in the search. You are not the one who let me live, You are the one who to teach me to die. You are the dream, the celebration of moments, You are not the one who sustain for long. You are the one whose memoirs are pearls of my tears you are never the breeze, never a song.

It used to be the morning. The mornings sound different. Sky is dark, and even a weekday seems to be static summer holiday. I turn and twist in the bed. Some minutes pass, in sleep, in dream. And, then I listen to the sound, ssss, ssssssss, tipppp, dhassss, all sorts of frictions, hits and touches are included in the sound. Its rain. I go to the door. I feel invisible drops touching me. a opaque curtain of rain is covering the view. A hard, dry concrete spread all over the city looks little mystic, little painful in this rain. And, I realize even this city, which I hate most of the time for being to heartless and unromantic, seems beautiful in the rain. I look as away as I can. I see lonely green trees, drenched in this shower. Their dark leafy appearance has new wet look. Birds caught in the rain, birds waiting at dry corners and birds daring to fly in showers. I see road, now seem as polished mahogany furniture. Vehicles pass, conscious about applying gentle bre