Wednesday, March 12, 2014


Showing the withered flower that day,
she told me
'You should write a poem about it'.

I just nodded.

There were then more springs
and many more autumns
that passed in this meanwhile.

Suddenly by remembering her suggestion,
she queried
'I asked you to write a poem
on that withered flower?'.

I just smiled

'Where is the poem?',
she was serious.

I looked out through the monsoon window.
There were more flowers and many more poems.
'Oh my dear!
They both,
the flower and the poem
are quite drenched at this point.
Shall we get a bigger umbrella
and start picking one by one?'.

She looked at me
with her piercing eyes
as her eyelids resembled
an even bigger umbrella.

It still rains...


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