Harpreet Chhachhia

The Wind and the Rain.

The rain outside tinkles, tinkles,
On wet, sweet-smelling ground:
Each drop laughing as it falls,
Dispelling happiness all around.

The wind billows my curtains high
And caresses my face;
Says a soft and dewy “hi”,
Then moves back to put the curtains in place.

The night rests on its darkened hours –
It listens to the rain;
The moon and stars are hidden;
But they, too, listen and do not complain.

Everything else is quiet.
No other breath of sound . . .
Just the gay laugh of the rain
And the mischievous wind blowing around.

The angel came to the virgin,
Amidst flakes of white snow;
To the virgin, who lived in joy,
And knew not what was woe.

The angel came to the virgin,
And hugged her in his wings—
Just like the Swan did dumb Leda—
And taught her earthly things.

The heat melted the white-bright snow,
Tinting her lips with red;
As the last flake melted, he left
But feathers on her bed.

She began to think, to but cry,
Tears, tears, instead of snow,
Replaced angels with mortal men,
And battled against woe.

Tears . . . tears form in my brain,
But do not reach my eyes . . .
(Perhaps I love in vain,
For I know all love dies.)

In memories that last,
They cling to words spoken;
In thinking of the past,
Bear dreams that are broken.

They scan each vow you made,
Imagine each part of you,
See each vow, slowly, fade,
With no existing clue.

They cry, helpless, in pain,
For now, although each tries –
Imprisoned by my brain –
They will not reach my eyes!