The Kite On The String

Now, the weather was much clearer

Than I could expect it to be.

When I slid the cold glass open

The sky, much more ashen than it could be grey,

Poured down in drizzles,

But it was the wind: drenched at first

And then let loose into a sinister world.

The leaves are just too small enough

For little black birds to nestle;

But at times they seemed to croon

And flap their way to find a warmer refuse -

One that is dark, one that is half in the light.

The wind had business, quite important to attain;

A broken kite was not reported to be seen,

Monsoon, as untimely as it can be,

Gave it one more reason to be free -

It was flying again, fixed to its glass string.

What the eyes see, the pen only hears,

The ink can soak in, and it will never be wet enough.