The rain stops.
The soft scent of petrichor
is brought in by the cold wind.
Echoing outside is
the melodious dropping of rain drops
trapped on the leaves of acacia
as it falls down to the wet pavement.
Birds sing again
their usual five-note tune,
not in unison, but one after the other.
From my window is
the ROYGBIV streak
painted by the hands of goblins.
The rain stops.
I’ll wait for it to start again.
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