True, I have a trust issue with rain.
It promises to hide the craters of a life.
That way the holes stay, become
fatal for you, half-innocent, walking
into this life. The panes assembled
by the light outside and the shadows within
or by the pall falling across the plateau
outside and the electric our flesh sparks
on the salt-sweat-soaked bedsheet
no longer need this game of the rays to exist.
They hold on to the drops of rain and dance
to the wind. I watch you sink. I watch the ripples
circling the void, and that way downplaying its threat.
(An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, is a journalist. He authored eight books and has been translated into eleven languages across the globe.)
