The Umpteenth Rain Poem

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The pattern of raindrops
on the summer-baked roof-tops;
Like soft jingle to ears.
Takes me back years.

The smell is familiar,
The feeling is old;
And yet when it rains,
Even the stiff, mature self, is sold.

Waiting for a cricket match,
To resume after the rainy patch;
Racing paper boats in the over-filled drains;
Shutting windows on the trains.

Sloshing school shoes in pools of muddy water,
Keeping the socks dry didn’t matter.
Umbrellas and raincoats at the windows and doors;
Escaping the raindrops at the Kirana stores.

These are memories of old,
But are still always told
To the heart, when it rains;
And even the ambitious, busy self is sold.

The patter of raindrops
on the summer-baked roof-tops;
Like the rhythm of life plays,
Even in the darkest of days.

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