1.17

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Paper boats and puddles,
water, trickling from the roof top
onto my head, as I look above,
the official announcement- has been made;
And put down their weapons, they
perch over us, not quite silently
thundering, bouldering, brash
claiming what they feel
is rightfully theirs-
the land.

A soft cool breeze that whispers, subtle,
brushing past my cheeks, 
taking a flight, the curtains- white
by white I mean white and not blue;
horizontal lines,
in rhythmic staffs spread
on a satin music sheet
dimmed by a downlighter overhead
carrying whispers and sounds,
emanating from the whistling
trees and leaves,
a squirrel struggling, scratching
on a branch,
the downpour which comes swift
ceasing to exist the next moment
leaving traces of its existence,
a heart beat ago.

It starts slow, usually,
proceeding up to the highest of uproars,
the sky, as if divulging 
every secret, every conversation
every word, which might not have
meant, the same as what
was heard before, between us
and them, and more of us,
now located at different tangents
different spheres, a geological separation
a climatic connection?
perhaps; if you heard the clouds too
and felt the heat rise from the ground
a yellower blanket
with various shades of greens and spots
pink, fuschia, white
adorning the city walls, roofs and space
then we live 
not to far away;

And the summon reached me 
as you might have read it too:
‘The monsoon is here to stay.’

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