A poem by Aman Srivastava - MBA'22, FMS Delhi
You stood at the bus-stop forlorn
It had mizzled all day, relentless
Just gazing down like a unicorn
In a dampened, argentine dress
Eyes infantile, glanced for a while
I mumbled, O! What a merry sight
With arms docile, you wiped your face
The face that oozed with light
Here a trench and there a hill
And here and there a puddle
Wind hostile, a numbing chill
Arms wrapped, but none to cuddle
The clouds stood tall, what hour ‘twas
If only the prophets could tell
The watches all soaked, and dead alas!
And none to have rung the bell
You turned to me, with an awry smile
For you yearned to know the hour
Then a car drove in, a splatter it made
My face hence draped in tar
Adrift with musings of embarrassment
I swung my skull to the earth
Then you stepped up, with a milky cloth
And the chagrin seemed of worth
Some poise in me, I mustered back
For you conversed sublime
Some poise in you to be poised at all
At such a terrible time
We wittered and nattered the trivialities
Neglecting the ominous rain
This morrow, our wedding vows I take
Brooding down the memory lane