Poem By I.P. GOPIKRISHNAN PISHARODY
The dropp of rain,
outdo in to the holes of Guitar
where the stripes befall,
on tenor of libretto of composition;
The world hushed in the frozen rain,
where sky is like golden yellow.
There the bend that
clear the rim of sky.
I play in Guitar; the clouds
move towards the earth.
and create a wall in obverse to me,
where the sound, of Guitar’s boom.
The rain dropp draw slightly,
fallen into my bed.
And it starts on falling
even upon itself.