The Rain


It belongs here not,
The rain,
Travelled from a distant land,
The nomads,
Follow it well,
Only to a distance

Remains in view,
The old barricades
Of the past,
Buried in the torrents,
The poems of droplets,
As the blue tribes search
Through years of prayers

The dusty faces,
Leaps into spring
As it falls upon
The crevices of skin,
There somewhere,
In a distant land,
Awaits, through its pain
The moments of peace

Travelled it has far,
To the places alien,
As the old nomads,
Dig up the deserts,
The quest never ends,
For the tiny droplets of life
Now the napes begin to feel
The beautiful effect
The dance finally begins
Through the crimson effects
Of the monsoon and its storms…

Kashkin

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