Tip, tip, tip..., when patters rain,
Moves something in Mama's brain;
As out she her neck does crane,
She sees a stream 'long the lane.
Moves something in Mama's brain;
As out she her neck does crane,
She sees a stream 'long the lane.
Then bolts she out of the door
For the stream of rain water,
That flows with pitter-patter,
Where bubbles form and rupture.
To collect them she hopes,
As they burst under raindrops;
But she waits not till rain stops,
And onto stream she hops.
But bubbles bob up, then sink
Under her eyes' wet blink;
'Rain is crook.', she does think,
And her face does turn pink.
At rain she throws her anger
And sees rain fleeing in fear,
But on stream no bubbles appear,
Then stream does disappear!
In tears, Mama returns,
Too young to know what it turns,
That bubbles are brief funs;
Yet for them, she hugely yearns...
Rain comes, stream flows, bubbles form,
And Mama wants to take home
All bubbles, at least, some,
But none she can, as goes past autumn.
- N P SAMAL
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