Melancholy of a Pluviophile

The drenched halogen yellow lightened my walls.

The silence is salt & peppered with brontide and whistle of breeze.

Thoughts are forming up, words are gather around

But they are disappearing like the droplets on the glass of the windows.


Am not remembering you, Rupai, or lamenting

This moment is the long after the rain when dryness is found.


The city getting drenched, the roads are getting drenched

My soul, tired and marooned, getting drenched.

The nib of pen is though dry trying to write;

Dipping itself in the water on the road that flowing away.


Am not thinking of you, am thinking of what to think.

The sadness I feel this moment is the melancholia finding its voice.



17 thoughts on “Melancholy of a Pluviophile”

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