It rained last night
soaking the dew
in absolute flood.
The rain washed off-
the leaves clean,
the bark fragrant.
It kissed the clay
to a careful abandon-
The rain moistened the night.
Waiting for the ashen sky to blush,
for the tulip buds to coyly smile.
The night lay
as if etherised across
the relentless march of time.
The timid sun refuses to yawn,
a misty halo surrounds the morning-
veiling the air
embracing the fragile fragrance.
It will perhaps-
soon enough
Prise open a thousand pearls,
a thousand words,
a thousand unsaid,
the miniml said...
Till then,
the night shall wait
caressing its abandon
straightening its curls and creases
refusing to hope
accepting to change.
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