A girl, looking at the drops from the window,
By the time she reached the roof to get drenched
The rain had stopped
Only the wet roof was left to caress her feet
The wind falling on her face had the effect of drops
But there was no thrilling blow of the drops
The girl said in a sad tone
She will complain about the rain
And suddenly I realized
That unaware of the rain beyond the door
Lost in the fingers moving on the mobile keyboard
I am weaving a fake poem by tearing out the real poem
I am leaving the poem and just listening to the poet
I realized that the distance between the poem and me
I am just as much as
The distance between the roof and the stairs of the staircase
Between the generations of the father and daughter sitting next to each other
That maturity is not the poem's compulsion but the poet's
The poem must be getting drenched in the rain on some roof
And the poet is the one of wisdom Wearing a cloak,
He must be sitting in the balcony and looking at me with contempt
I just opened the roof door and called out
Come quickly dear, the rain has come again
I have just learned the true poem of life
Thank you so much for reading. Have a great day 😊🙏. @vikbuddy
