It’s still raining here, my son!
The sky blue envelope sleeps in warmth of my palms. It’s yours, I know. I let it sleep, sleep for a while after miles of journey!
I open it up slowly, smell your sweet fragrance and run through the images in flashback—like a stream that never flowed before. Dear, I find you scribbling—pages used by—and sitting by a solitary window you look afar through drizzles of nature’s laughter. I can surely glimpse the face that lugs along the yokes of severance yet flashes in the mirth of ceaseless togetherness—I go on observing--smitten by bliss of absolute love!
You write, “It’s raining here, father!”
Every little drop descends leisurely from an unnamed cloud and enjoys pleasures of uniqueness and finally mingles into a pool of entirety. We remain captivated by its distinctiveness yet fail to delineate its pride of existence. We perceive of its sojourn that interweaves individuality with whole, still fail to behold of its meaningfulness.
It’s still raining, son!
Clouds meet above in hazy sky and greet each other with spurt of thunders—faces gleam in ecstasy of reunion and I sit quietly by a solitary window. Through the veil of cascading raindrops inanely I stare at— meadows and trees and mountains sitting speechless—the world pensively lying idle.
The drops trickle down the window pane; they yearn for what they know not, and rummage around to find ways deep into my soul. They walk past myriad ways that were never trodden before. They come out—drenching every bit of my innate pride with divinity—and bid adieu. I keep on wondering why they came and why they are gone. I remain captivated by such tryst, sudden although a certain one. I cry unsure of whether it is for pain or pleasure, but I cry aloud. Tears roll down my cheeks and drops find their way long, long enough through my soul, to meet into finality.
I could see only those innocuous eyes, which sparkle in thrill of delving into newer pathways—running deep into an unplumbed depth—that lead to the subterranean values laid hidden for years within, still uncultivated. I find reasons to believe in your eyes and start to learn why you wrote, “It’s raining here, father!”
I long to know why it is still raining, my son!
Let it rain, let those clouds roam around and meet in exuberance, let those raindrops fly down and find their ways deep into our souls and let us cry in joy of unearthing a true world of togetherness where only souls find distance annulled.
I close the envelope—a sky blue envelope—that I know to be yours only, my son!
I remain seated by a solitary window and find you by another, some hundred miles away.
It’s still raining here, my son!
[ This was my first post on this blog in another June of 2007....reposted again here ]
The sky blue envelope sleeps in warmth of my palms. It’s yours, I know. I let it sleep, sleep for a while after miles of journey!
I open it up slowly, smell your sweet fragrance and run through the images in flashback—like a stream that never flowed before. Dear, I find you scribbling—pages used by—and sitting by a solitary window you look afar through drizzles of nature’s laughter. I can surely glimpse the face that lugs along the yokes of severance yet flashes in the mirth of ceaseless togetherness—I go on observing--smitten by bliss of absolute love!
You write, “It’s raining here, father!”
Every little drop descends leisurely from an unnamed cloud and enjoys pleasures of uniqueness and finally mingles into a pool of entirety. We remain captivated by its distinctiveness yet fail to delineate its pride of existence. We perceive of its sojourn that interweaves individuality with whole, still fail to behold of its meaningfulness.
It’s still raining, son!
Clouds meet above in hazy sky and greet each other with spurt of thunders—faces gleam in ecstasy of reunion and I sit quietly by a solitary window. Through the veil of cascading raindrops inanely I stare at— meadows and trees and mountains sitting speechless—the world pensively lying idle.
The drops trickle down the window pane; they yearn for what they know not, and rummage around to find ways deep into my soul. They walk past myriad ways that were never trodden before. They come out—drenching every bit of my innate pride with divinity—and bid adieu. I keep on wondering why they came and why they are gone. I remain captivated by such tryst, sudden although a certain one. I cry unsure of whether it is for pain or pleasure, but I cry aloud. Tears roll down my cheeks and drops find their way long, long enough through my soul, to meet into finality.
I could see only those innocuous eyes, which sparkle in thrill of delving into newer pathways—running deep into an unplumbed depth—that lead to the subterranean values laid hidden for years within, still uncultivated. I find reasons to believe in your eyes and start to learn why you wrote, “It’s raining here, father!”
I long to know why it is still raining, my son!
Let it rain, let those clouds roam around and meet in exuberance, let those raindrops fly down and find their ways deep into our souls and let us cry in joy of unearthing a true world of togetherness where only souls find distance annulled.
I close the envelope—a sky blue envelope—that I know to be yours only, my son!
I remain seated by a solitary window and find you by another, some hundred miles away.
It’s still raining here, my son!
[ This was my first post on this blog in another June of 2007....reposted again here ]
