THE RAINS

The rains
They are coming
On the clouds of mine
To the soils of thine
They are coming
From my real dreams
To your illusive realities
They shall slip off  my arms
To fall gentle on your bosoms
Rattling with happiness
On the rooftop and courtyard
They shall run through your temples
Like beads of water on the lotuses
O'  they are still mine but yours
I need them like flowers in the vases
But thy shall have them to quench the  thirsts
They are my slaves
But for you, they shall be saviours
I sip them from rivers
Not with need but for nature
I slip them onto to you
Not with love but with labour
The duty of a mind
Is not to think but to believe
The duty of a body
Is not to contain but to perspire
The rains
They are coming
From the real me
To the real you
They shall fall gentle
And heal the pain
The dust shall settle
Showing you the way home.

-Aroon Che