When in Pune it will rain, the sky mushroom with patches of grey,
Then by the window I will sit and quietly watch the clouds sway.
The little kid on the first floor, with his wild unruly hair,
With a start he’ll flee inside, from behind his Mom stare.
The trembling creeper on the outer wall will grow more unkempt,
But the scornful oak right across will merely smirk with contempt.
The thunder from distant lands, will grumble in despair,
The ram shackled hut sadly though, will be damaged beyond repair.
Hand in hand loved ones will walk, from under an umbrella smile.
Fairy stones now glistening wet, will scamper up the stile.
With a cup of coffee and a tune or so, I’ll watch the monsoonal lane,
I’ll keep an eye in case you arrive, when in Pune it will rain.