Go, wait for every cloud of rain.
She comes to you in shroud of rain.
Her eyes are childish, drizzling glee.
Her smile’s maternal, proud of rain.
She doubts the poet pouring books –
Why stay in, disavowed of rain?
Go, lose yourself in Sufi winds.
She finds you in the crowd of rain.
So silent is your gratitude.
O Misra, sing aloud of rain.
Minakhi Misra 