Half way down the Lodhi Road,
the first day of rain,
those who come here often must
be held by you, and pain,
and memory must, like memory does,
hold them in its skein,
remembering you, like always, with
the summer in your veins.
the first day of rain,
those who come here often must
be held by you, and pain,
and memory must, like memory does,
hold them in its skein,
remembering you, like always, with
the summer in your veins.
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