Rhythmic sounds of the raindrops,
Orchestrated with the occasional thunder.
Pleasant as an age old glass harmonica,
With the tunes like the sounds of the heaven.
A medicine to an ailing soul.

The cuckoo's call is muted by the winds,
Only we hear is the earth guzzling the downpour.
A few peek from the light, a few rescind it.
Splashing through the puddles,
Reminiscing the lost past.
Trying to relate how we were, better off as kids.

The age is far gone where it was a play, now a burden.
We've lost, lost to the time.
Let gone of happiness they give.
Tiny thoughts and simple dreams.