Friday, July 4, 2014


Memory has its ghosts, full of whispers and sighs.
At times in the concert of first monsoon rain
They deck out all the troops
And fiddle our sense
With footfalls in sepia-coloured lanes.

Groping for words, I've called out their names
Which drowned in the tears unaddressed.

Puzzled with the cryptographic symbols in vain
I search for my keys and linger in the rain.