Boys in the Rain

Through the yanked door I could behold

A scene of incessant rain

Shrubs and trees and their boughs swaying in gentle breeze

Raindrops beating on my cell roof

Procure a weird music

And its toll increases every passing time

Far away about 300 meters, I think so,

In acorned fields of a hamlet

There spreads a patch of grassy ground

And there, O! There are a gang of primary school boys-

Small and big,

Fat and thin;

All are in gho:

Some have made them half,

While some in still full with the sleeves rolled up,

Bare are their feet

Playing and thrusting upon a ball and

Shouting a joy of innocence.

Up from the sky of murky clouds,

Lightning cuts through them and

Grumble of thunder follows

The weather is so precarious

Yet the boys are there!

I think they are drenched and cold.

Still they are engrossed in their own world

Unmindful of their parents’ worries,

For two and half hours past the school break.

The movement of the ball drives them here and there:

One is dribbling it way out of others

While the rest are chasing him

But at the far end stands a small boy as a goalie,

Jumpy and excited to embrace it.

They play and shout.

They are themselves; bother less of the world outside them.

They seem so free!

I wonder their moment of mirth is pure,

A sense of camaraderie strong and spirit good.

I wonder they do have dreams,

They are inspired and led by their parents and relatives, teachers and peers to become good people,

They ever think they would grow with years, and

Get devoured by the world as their ancestors!

Yet, they are still there playing in the rain...