Cliche

It doesn’t rain here.
It doesn’t even rain inside.
We wait, we keep on waiting.
Clouds come, and they go too.
We have taught ourselves not to be hopeful.
Hope is a dainty speck of dust, which we stare at, in awe, till it pierces our eyes.
So, we spend our days contemplating, and thinking of contemplating.
We look towards the other side.
We sigh on mowed grass.
The freshly tilled soil doesn’t emanate anything.
We remain silent.
Sometimes reticence is a blessing,
Lest a gasp stunts the growth of the saplings.
They were green before.
A fresh Absinthe green.
Now, they are just transparent tubes with plastic dewdrops carefully stuck with industrial glue.
Its hard work.
Specks of gold, glitter on the river bed.