Vishal had lost again the race
He could not keep the pace
This time too he lost the case
About winning the silver vase
All this had left him in a daze.
He decided to set out to a place
Seeking a guide, peace and solace
He reached a wooded green space
Where he met a coach named Grace
Who taught him well how to pace…
All the while me and my wife Jane
Had dream’t of flying to far off Spain
tickets we did not obtain in any plane
She asked how the dream would sustain
I told her we could always get a train
that passed through the terrain of Spain
We had barely got into a crowded train
when it started to mighty heavily rain
having the crowd seeming so insane
only one person Jane, she looked sane.
When I started looking at her again
she seemed to be in some sort of pain
efforts to reach to her were all in vain
when, of a sudden, our train hit a crane
that somehow got stuck in wet terrain.
We seemed to lose contents of our brain
comforting, as in, no gain without pain,
could you tell, amid tears, are we in Spain?
the strain was much, though, to ascertain
we looked like people hit with dirt cocaine
though in our plan was, old Champagne…
This poem came to me with the recent rains in Bahrain.