A joy as pure rose as the water which fell,
that whistling bird whose echoes floated into me,
that gently lounging butterfly gliding in the breeze,
the hypnotic rythm of the waterfall,
the tiny gurgling streams joining hands with their louder elders,
stitching the green fabric with their silvery glistening threads;
the rickety yet sturdy bus carrying our brittle selves
the falls turning adults into kids,
the clouds opening , the rain pouring,
the falling water, seemingly powerful enough to destroy Matter,
the rocks holding their place and flinging the water away, not budging,
a spectacular perpetual battle,
the sky at its dullest gray but never feeling so.
we baby-stepped towards our destination,
through soil which looked squeezed out and became a water body,
streets which had turned into streams; open 'grounds' into lakes and potholes into beautiful puddles,
ego and urban fatigue flattened beyond recognition like the coin over which rolleth the train,
the 'I' in me humbled by the hills, silenced by the roar of water,
the illusions of control washed away by showers of rain;
a pair of red leaves in the green,
a contrast a thousand times brighter and livelier than old memories.
bred and surviving on flat lands,
the mighty showcase of gravity lifted my spirits,
defying my stagnating flat inertia and slow-but-certain fall,
an endless torrent of water breaking the endless spirals of thought.
