Always Back to The Rain

Day by day expressions and feelings are buried in the cenotaph of numbness and stoicism. I sit down idle looking through the window, lost into the chirping birds hovering around the Pipple tree around the corner at the afternoon while the tinge of crimson red of the dieing sun softly falls on them. Then at some some night there comes the rain.I settle myself in the balcony during the shower and look at the bereft tree branches in the backdrop of the grey-coloured cloudy sky. You feel that someone or something has robbed the poor trees of their green leaves, symbol of life. So they are still standing still in the rain lifeless. But rain is like a whiff of cool breeze, a touch of life, a sense of freshness. These trees seem to pine for the rain, its inherent cool warmth. The raindrops slide down their branches as if the crystal clear raindrops kiss them with all their adoration.Grey clouds prevail. Magic all around - the soft parade of raindrops all over the tree branches, indignant fall of another host of raindrops through the green leaves around, small rivulets of flowing rainwater in the roadsides-all these sounds resonate to a magical spell all over the surrounding and the cold freshness prevails. So this tired soul is always back to the rain.