Instead of a paint brush, I get you colours- a pack of ten;
And call you at the nearby glen.
You to look upon the sky of burning sunflowers,
And to withdraw an affair with the monsoon showers.

Instead of a paint brush, I get you my fountain pen,
To write about our forgotten rain.
This time I see your shadowy form fades,
And I emerge to blend into your hidden grey shades.

Thus the story of you, me and the fountain pen ends.