As dry as the soil that yearn,
As dry as the paper in my diary;
Longing to quench it’s thirst,
In agony to perceive a meaning.
When the unmarred rain drops pass,
When my thoughts do flow in ink;
Hitting the earth, and that rising smell,
That home coming feel, feel of rebirth.
When the ethereal fluid hits the rock,
When my ink, do pen down the words,
The Petrichor, I sense is same.
