By Sribalaji Setlur
Her soft pitter-patter fills the air on a winter’s night,
She’s the silver needles under a sombre streetlight.
She still speaks the same language wherever she goes,
But she doesn’t wear the unforgettable scent from years before.
Those were times when we danced with her,
Jumping in puddles, never running for cover.
We pleaded for her presence when our cricket team was in trouble,
And before exams when failure was inevitable.
She turned drains in front of our homes into streams,
In her wake, we captained paper boats along the streets.
She thundered down with angry veins flashing on a night’s sky,
And our loved ones wrapped us in their arms and sang a sweet lullaby.
Like Time, her sweet pearls are destined to move in a single direction,
But she leaves one thinking, if only the clock could be turned back as in science-fiction.
I pray that each encounter with her evokes similar thoughts and gratitude,
For she is a monotonous miracle that reminds me of my multitude.