Father Of Rain-Drops Poem by murari sinha

those
who walk through the full-to-the-brim river
with dusts in their feet
are not so much good people

as being a part of the waves
they are all fundamentalist

all around them there is
far-off water of peace

getting down from the back door
you may hide the talkativeness of your tonsil
in the shower of rain

you may taste
the earning of the march
the morning of the fishes
the mark of the void
and call of the alarmed heart

the sun-shine
that is as cold as e = mc2
comes to take away everything
putting them into a shopping-bag

he is said to be the father of rain-drops