The sky is almost dark, saving for those last golden tinges that would fade in no time. As palm trees mark the oblivion, a muddy reflection forms the ground. Last few days were mostly rainy. So profound is our love for rain. And why would not we? Unlike most other seasons, rain are so tender. A drop of patience which is about to reach its final destiny. Every time I look at rain drops they remind me of a struggle. A journey that begins with summer in an aura of dry and burning heat. And in no time the drop loses its sources. The long carried identity of its mother. With the loss of identity a awakening awaits. The pleasure to reach out and bond. As our drop moves up and up the end less skies, it realises the futility of pride and the necessity to bond. This comes with age. Not until it is near to earth it agrees to meet with other wanderers of the new world. And finally all our drops reach the cold atmosphere. The coldness makes life dreary and lonely. As the youthfulness dies out,