Despair of the clouds above, Skimming the stones to kill your wait, You stand there in the dried-lake. You look at the mountain across for a miracle, And with splashing sound and gushing speed, There comes the waterfall for you, just for you. And like a skylark, you spread your wings to collect some drops With a thought that this time it won't stop, The waterfall suddenly disappears behind the mountains. You look at your drenched-self and ask, "Is that a beginning or an end of the weird season called love?" Now, hopeful of the clouds above, Writing the poetry to plead and impress, You are standing there, waiting for her till the unknown times. *- Amit Kharat*