With all my will I desire
but lack the might of passion.
I burn with the thirst of fire
but know not love from fashion.
For a false image I crave
which blurs with passage of time.
Where as fate embrace the brave,
and pursue the pure divine.
Desire is ephemeral.
But passion is eternal.
Bow is moulded by the soul.
Its mighty strings tensed to roar.
Wood is curved and battle-rolled,
and would twang to bow or soar.
Arrow piloted by mind
headed to distant armours.
But its steel-eyes, feathered hind
might trail a path amorous.
A bowyer prides in his craft.
A fletcher juggles his shafts.
The scent of petrichor permeated.
The land readied for the pearls from the skies.
The muse of the drenched souls long awaited-
poured its heart out with melodious sighs.
Some souls danced in this shower of blessings.
Some watched it splatter on their window panes.
And the tall trees spread their wide leafy wings.
Cats and dogs chased in the slippery lanes.
The birds gaped for here fell their wonder drops.
The streams burbled with a sparkling vigour.
The valleys greened around the mountain tops,
and the echoes rolled with a new swagger.
Small paper boats swirled around in puddles.
And the sweet drizzle lulled us with cuddles.
