Soft rain.

Soft rain.

One gets lost pondering sometimes
When the rain falls
Softly on his head
And when he has no plans
To take shelter.

One asks these questions to himself,
“When am I going to write my poem
about a soft rainfall?”
and a voice from insides

“now “





and words,
as if descending
from heavens
land on his eyes
and he cries them inward
and they fall from his fingers
ever so softly onto the pages.


Just like the rain
On that October morning.
Washington, D.C.

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