SAVE THE AUTHOR WHILE SHE BREATHES, DONT BE THE WICKED READER WHO BUYS BOOKS OF ONLY DEAD AUTHORS, LIKE THE WORKS WHY DONT YOU CHECK OUT MY BOOKS AND SAVE THE POOR AUTHOR?
tell me a story
Every evening they come, right from eastern sky, full of promise
the sun gets dimmed, wind starts blowing, a little colder than noon.
One hopes against hope it will rain, it will rain today!
Sometimes they disappear within an hour, sometimes they linger.
Like the carrot hanging in front of a horse to lure it to trot forth!
To give it the false hope that it will soon be in its mouth,
tasty, juicy, sweet carrot will be its delight!
Sometimes the man pities the beast and gives it to it,
and sometimes like a wicked kid he just lures it.
Skies are playing the same game with us every single day,
the clouds they come dance and wind sings.
We watch the party from down below, sometimes the
cruel lightning joins in, once in a while they drop a few drops!
But that is all they do! They tempt us and then run away,
We sit down here, gaping like the horse, hoping for the
delicious, all satiating rain.