The Town saw the downpour and experienced it,
Wetting the roads and roofs of houses,
Built to last, unlike families residing inside,
Thunder and lightning and relentless rain,
Winds faster than the imagination of Man,
All poured down as a concoction to relieve,
Meditation of Mothers and release from stress.
Since a few days, the population has been indoors,
Watching TV and browsing their phones.
Not many have admired poetry, not even me,
Until the downpour that poured over,
Neruda would have smiled on such an evening,
There's no one to be drenched tonight,
Unless some people were brave enough to face,
Such a heavy rain which wets the soul,
And can possibly cleanse the mind,
Off irrationality and irrelevant thoughts,
Fallacies and past failures.
Me, myself have often had dreams,
Or nightmares, in a lack of a better word,
About the past and about my personality in it,
Sorry to say but I have forgotten most of it,
Maybe my mistakes are hidden in,
A dusty cold corner of my mind,
Like old storerooms in Bengali households,
Where one can find a broken clock,
Or a bunch of matchboxes with mudded matches,
A jar of a decade old pickle,
Paintings that some child created in his free-time.
Rain is beautiful and lovely to look and feel,
Mindfully inside one's room and not outside,
As you wouldn't want mud on your shoes,
Nor mud on shirt and sleeves,
And not on the thing that you wear on your sleeves,
Which has a reputation of getting so broken,
No humane glue could fix it.
– SIDDHARTH GANGULY