A Rainy Sunday in Bangalore

 





A Rainy Sunday in Bangalore

A grey veil drapes the Bangalore skies,
Raindrops whisper as the morning sighs.
The chill wraps gently, a fleeting breeze,
The air is scented with dampened trees.

A brisk walk through puddles, a 5K stride,
The city's stillness our only guide.
Cold winds wrap tight, yet hearts are light,
For nature’s beauty holds no spite.

Back at home, the ritual unfolds,
A steaming cup, a story told.
Tea—hot, fragrant, its flavors dance,
A brew of comfort, a moment’s romance.

And in my hands, a poet’s rhyme,
Words like lanterns through mist and time.
Each stanza, a portal, a world anew,
Expanding horizons, shifting the view.

The mundane mind, now wide awake,
Dreams unfurl like ripples on a lake.
The poet’s thoughts, like rain on stone,
Carve new paths to call my own.

This rain-soaked morning, draped in grey,
Finds its warmth in this perfect stay.
Tea in hand, poetry to share,
An inner glow replaces despair.

For happiness, I find, is not the sun,
It’s the quiet joy when the day’s begun.
In the little rituals that soothe the soul,
In the gentle moments that make us whole.

So let the rain fall, let the skies stay dim,
Inside, there’s a light that will not trim.
Tea and poetry—a sacred pair,
A Sunday start, beyond compare

 

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