The smell of new books
(Intoxicating like that of varnish)
Fancied friends, pencils and pens
The careful walking around the puddles
While reading the messages on the raincoats.
The drying of clothes on tables, chairs
And everywhere.
The silly things written down
(Poems or just drawings)
Out of joy or the warmth at home.
Melancholy is hard to find
In such an image.
(Even years later, when you reflect)
It will take a little more time
For the pencils to darken.
2 comments:
Feels nice, this July, and all to come.
And your touch in the end is awesome. :) :P
Come July,
and every thing is grey,
Grey clouds full of water,
Fields grey with clay,
who says it is hard to find Melancholy,
see the grey, in life of people
flushed away by their own goddess,
Even the fields once painted green
sports a grey look
For, the sun is still shinning
and July is soon going to end.
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