I am thinking of sunny days,
dropfulls of golden sun,
rolling
hills and sprawling fields,
covered with
ripened fruit.
I am
thinking of forgotten songs-
warm meals
cooked over wood fire;
the
eye-stinging naughty smoke
that chased
us round the fire, and the
riveting
stories that salted its cooking.
I am
thinking of forgotten dreams;
dreams of cow
herds and goat hoards-
a little
house in the valley, plenty crop,
and simple
longings like
a quiet life
sheltered by the hills-
tucked away
from the stoic sepsis
of modern
ways and their sterility.
I am
thinking of rainy days,
dropfulls of dewy hopes-
the healing scent
of wet anthill-soil,
and ancient
myths and fables
Like the
story of a sunny rain hailing
the birth of
a leopard cub.
Round these
parts it doesn’t rain.
It pours.
And I, peering
up at a weeping sky,
wonder,
What story does
each drop conceal?
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