The sound of last rain, the smell of last rain, the melancholy tune of last rain is in the air. There was no hint of this at morning, the sky was bright, the sun was fine, the humidity was terrible to make everyone run away from roads, roads clear as they are on holiday and then from nowhere song of last rain started playing on this stage, sunshine disappeared, the air became more fluent, the wind started playing whirlpools, old leaves left their trees and begun traveling into world which will be soon their death den. I sense it is going to rain, the last rain of this season, the season which started by rain in the night, season which was marked by a dance performance of rain at one wild night and then a whole turmoil of meaning and chaos, way and turnarounds, setbacks and leads, and now, it is last rain of this season. It is never going to rain like this, not at least in near future, future that my eyes can behold now....
I am in the rain now. The last rain putting it all in the performance, thundering, lightening, sipping sounds made by water drops and over all there is an aloof sorrow that is being poured. Mist covers the hills before my eyes. Drops form curtains and those curtains dance at frenzy. Rain is playing at its will, as if this is last show done by a maestro. I am feeling it, all through my skin, naked under sky, and in front of eyes, in my ears, on my tongue it is this rain. The last rain of this season, as if this is the end.
Words are at my feet. Everything is echoed in my ears by these drops. The rain never sees the seed it bows. The creation will happen inside the rugged earth and however effort rain will make to touch that miracle of creation, it will be thirsty. It cannot penetrate earth, unless it gives up everything and becomes a drop that enters through the earth and becomes part of new life. So this rain is giving all he has, he is making last effort to tell the earth that without me, you cannot create but i am so unlucky that i have to be alone. I listen to his monologue. No, no, it is not a cry. It is not a prayer, it not a confession. It is a poem which is never written on any paper. It is the only truth that to be known. It is sphere of loneliness that is me. But to reach that sphere, I have to travel through so many people, and yet I have leave all those who accompanied me in this journey inside. Rain is not domicile of this land. His birthplace is on those distant oceans, but now he is dying in a land, blocked my mountains which rain nerve able to cross. But rain is not worried by this loss. It has only one feeling that to told and that is everywhere in this rain. This is last rain of this season; as if this is not going to rain ever again.....
I am alone, standing on edge that is not so strong to hold me for long. And this rain is telling me its poem. I remember you. I remember everyone who taught me these words. But, I remember you, more than anyone. You for me are unique identification of all that was not within me. you, who are mesmerized by my words, you, who are deceived by what I appear to you, you, who walked on path that I never thought you will walk, you, whom I always imagined but failed to recognize when you became real. But, now, with this last rain, I feel death of my words and hence death of you too. I have a pain in heart, similar to what I feel in initial moments of journey to some new unknown. I see you getting mixed in these passing drops of rain, or are these my tears?
The space time in which live in, makes us what we are in it. But, apart from it, I exist; see myself getting governed by these two ultimate forces, especially time. I see pleasure of celebrating the desire and I feel vacuum that remains once desire evaporates. I wonder at this ever continuing game. I dive deep with refreshing river of time, my breath is choked by purity around me, I get beck to shore and truth passes away as drops on my wet body. I am the actor who knows the play by heart, yet, every time he plays it with increasing skill.
Now, it is me. I see my fear, my desire, my survival instinct, my thirst to know in this mist in front of my eyes. It is rebirth into the region which is known only to me. These are my last footprints and this is what I can tell at the most.
The rain, last of this season, is fading now. Soon it will be part of memories or call of dreams. Soon the game will resume. Soon it will be beginning and soon it will be an end.
But, right now, I am, just I am…
I am in the rain now. The last rain putting it all in the performance, thundering, lightening, sipping sounds made by water drops and over all there is an aloof sorrow that is being poured. Mist covers the hills before my eyes. Drops form curtains and those curtains dance at frenzy. Rain is playing at its will, as if this is last show done by a maestro. I am feeling it, all through my skin, naked under sky, and in front of eyes, in my ears, on my tongue it is this rain. The last rain of this season, as if this is the end.
Words are at my feet. Everything is echoed in my ears by these drops. The rain never sees the seed it bows. The creation will happen inside the rugged earth and however effort rain will make to touch that miracle of creation, it will be thirsty. It cannot penetrate earth, unless it gives up everything and becomes a drop that enters through the earth and becomes part of new life. So this rain is giving all he has, he is making last effort to tell the earth that without me, you cannot create but i am so unlucky that i have to be alone. I listen to his monologue. No, no, it is not a cry. It is not a prayer, it not a confession. It is a poem which is never written on any paper. It is the only truth that to be known. It is sphere of loneliness that is me. But to reach that sphere, I have to travel through so many people, and yet I have leave all those who accompanied me in this journey inside. Rain is not domicile of this land. His birthplace is on those distant oceans, but now he is dying in a land, blocked my mountains which rain nerve able to cross. But rain is not worried by this loss. It has only one feeling that to told and that is everywhere in this rain. This is last rain of this season; as if this is not going to rain ever again.....
I am alone, standing on edge that is not so strong to hold me for long. And this rain is telling me its poem. I remember you. I remember everyone who taught me these words. But, I remember you, more than anyone. You for me are unique identification of all that was not within me. you, who are mesmerized by my words, you, who are deceived by what I appear to you, you, who walked on path that I never thought you will walk, you, whom I always imagined but failed to recognize when you became real. But, now, with this last rain, I feel death of my words and hence death of you too. I have a pain in heart, similar to what I feel in initial moments of journey to some new unknown. I see you getting mixed in these passing drops of rain, or are these my tears?
The space time in which live in, makes us what we are in it. But, apart from it, I exist; see myself getting governed by these two ultimate forces, especially time. I see pleasure of celebrating the desire and I feel vacuum that remains once desire evaporates. I wonder at this ever continuing game. I dive deep with refreshing river of time, my breath is choked by purity around me, I get beck to shore and truth passes away as drops on my wet body. I am the actor who knows the play by heart, yet, every time he plays it with increasing skill.
Now, it is me. I see my fear, my desire, my survival instinct, my thirst to know in this mist in front of my eyes. It is rebirth into the region which is known only to me. These are my last footprints and this is what I can tell at the most.
The rain, last of this season, is fading now. Soon it will be part of memories or call of dreams. Soon the game will resume. Soon it will be beginning and soon it will be an end.
But, right now, I am, just I am…
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