when the
rain stops,
cleansed,of all,
of all, they
have gone through,
the little
bird feeds its children,
with
droplets, droplets of elixir,
people in
zigzag random motion,
on the way
to their abode,where,
they are heading,thinking
of heading,
make
melodious sounds with their flip flops,
mapping the
destiny of an old musician,
who sits on
the roadside,soaked with ideas,
in draught
of imagination,
chords of
his instrument thirsty for inspiration,
choke out
voice of desperation,
sky looks
down on the artist,
in courtyard
of colors,
painting it
in depression,
of his
beloved's separation,
a shabby
looking young woman,
burns her
house, whose flames,
invisible,
rise up,
reach to the
heaven,
smoke the
eyes, of those living there,
kids in the
street,
and old
fellas,
join their
lives,
by dancing
their hearts out,
for a while,
generating a
wind,
which holds
the hand,
and walks
with time,
