The monsoons, the dark, swollen clouds are here, bearing beneficence. Suddenly there is twinkling gladness in the hearts, the greens are greener and the sun is milder like a father in a good mood.
I like my skin when it rains. Its moister and I don't really mind the sweat too in these times as it cools me down. Just a few days earlier and it was too hot even to sweat. I would get headaches almost daily, sort of like a fever. Thank god for those tiny tablets of Paracetmol, I must have them on me, for I never know when a headache strikes. Those drying winds and that angry sun have made their exit for this part of the play.
The sound of ceaseless water dripping and the cooler winds are still to come but the promise has been made.
There is something about this time of the year so special. I think the romance of the clouds is scattered with the rains and it imbues all that which it soaks.
Poetry tastes better with raindrops, I think.
Tell me, is the rose naked...? by Pablo Neruda
Tell me, is the rose naked Or is that her only dress?
Why do trees conceal The splendor of their roots?
Who hears the regrets Of the thieving automobile?
Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?