If you are loved by a writer, I do not believe that you will ever really die
For you live in every work they have ever written, poetry in their minds that they share with the minds of others.
Your breath is on each pen stroke, your image on each letter.
Your scent captured by the yellowing pages and soul can be found in the corners of each paper.
Your love recorded and felt by many, touching people who you have never met.
And even when you die, and the heart of your beloved writer stops beating, you live on in the words they have written.
You become immortal.

It had rained all night
And drenched the land outright
Leaving puddles and pools,
Here, there and everywhere.
But the morning saw
The sun blazing ever more bright

I watched the water
Flowing silently away
With no ostentation
Along channels, furrows and waterways
Cavities, crevices and culverts
And through ditches and drains
What little remained,
Seeped down unnoticed
Through innumerable pores unseen.

As prisoners from narrow cells
Suddenly released into boundless space
Or troops from a garrison
On a spurt of fresh attack
The children shut indoors
Came out in gangs
To romp, jump and play.
Unmindful of anything,
      They soon lost in a wave of giggles.

But how sudden was the change!
The sky over cast with dark clouds
Fired out like a water cannon.
Once more the rain,
Cascaded down with greater vengeance
Each drop weighing gallons
And the silver needles pricking deep
Making the children flee
In directions all round
Like autumn leaves
Scattered by the wind!
The rain continued to pour
Inundating the low lying lands

Oh! Mother Nature
How erratic are your moods
How unpredictable
How like a child throwing tantrums
And how quickly appeased!