Thunder murmurs in the far dark distance.
And you tiptoe to my windowsill.
Accompany, the whispers of the monsoon wind,
carrying the fragrance of farms and crops.
I let you kiss my temple and lips.
But you teasingly trickle down my neck,
Like the inquisitive fingers of a new lover.
I taste the echoes and the musky scent of the soil.
Soon, I catch you by the hand and ask
‘But first tell me- aren’t rain and poetry the best of friends?’
‘The best’ you say and turn towards the wind, who
hums us a midnight song.
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