It is soft.

It is soft.

Soft as the melody of a cuckoo’s song from the mango orchards in summer. Soft as the meshed earth after a sudden monsoon shower.

Soft as the whispered delight of the ruffled leaves at nightfall. Soft as the whimsy clouds with the scorched sun, playing beck & call.

Soft as a hidden note in the rigour of a high pitched musical. Soft as the hymns from an early morning temple.

Soft as a touch of freshly mowed green garden. Soft as the flight of the blown away dandelion.

Soft as the full moon’s light in my courtyard. Soft as the flow of river over that mossy rock.

Soft is time and the memories knit from my summer. I know I will find them in me somewhere still together.

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