They say he smiled like morning sun,
But his eyes knew when monsoon would come.
He laughed in pages, wrote in sighs,
And held his storms behind his skies.
He wasn’t loud - just quietly bright,
A lighthouse keeping in its light.
He stitched his hurt with threads of ink,
and disappeared before you ould blink.
Some thought he lived too much alone,
But he had poems for flesh and bone.
He’d whisper to the windowsill,
And ask the moon if time stood still.
He’d write of love he never touched,
Of names he missed and dreams too much.
And when they’d pass him, none could guess
He carried worlds beneath that mess.
He’d break in metaphors, not in sound,
Leave pieces of himself around.
A pen, a page, a half-meant smile,
A silence stretching for miles.
If you had looked, just once, you’d find
His poems weeping in rewind.
A boy? Perhaps. A flame? Maybe;
A question mark in memory.
But if one day, he slips away,
Don’t ask why he didn’t stay.
Just read his lines. Just speak his name.
He never left, he became the rain.
By Mihir Warghane (Solmere)
Shri Rajendra High School & Jr College