by Saranyan BV
It happens on all rainy days,
When nobody is home
You are alone
And have access to
A broomstick in a corner of the scullery
Or any such decrepit place the broom finds good enough space.
It is home-made, the broom with a dirty limp
Clustered and bound with insufferable thread,
An ensemble of spine ribbed out from coconut leaves.
I make a bow with the strongest of them
Using a length of the thread spun from jute yarns
And one dozen arrows, sometimes two.
Drops falling with fury are easy to aim at,
Drops falling at leisure are easy to aim too;
The good thing about shooting rain is
The arrows never tell you if they find the target;
The targets never die, merely join hands like good friends
And roll down the slope.
Instead, it’s the arrows that die, sticking their butts up at the sky.
You are never an assassin when you shoot rains…
Picture from https://www.flickr.com/photos/greengirl24/
