Legend has it - The monsoon in India.
The hide and seek it plays,
The evasive, pervasive it stays.
Too much rain is flood.
Too little is famine.
I miss that Rain.
Its redolence fills me with memories unbound.
Feelings of consummation, fulfillment and loss.
Feelings of hope, sorrow and death.
Weather Forecast works harder year by year
No measure of speculation has ever been clear.
I miss that rain.
Folk lore sings its story.
Once the Sky and the Earth were in love.
They were separated.
Each time, the sky weeps- it rains.
The Sky reaches the Earth through its tears.
The Earth gets wet.
The Sky and the Earth embrace each other that way.
The Sun then graces the scene.
There's a rainbow.
I miss that rainbow.
That which colored my life.
Horizon is distant away.
It is a distant hope.
I wet my eyes.
I feel the pain.
That rain which cleansed me,
That rain which soiled my ground.
That rain which left me more thirsty as it quenched my thirst.
Who was more unworthy?
I leave the taste of bitter sweet behind.
Nothing quenched my thirst as did it.
The possession of which arched my brow.
In the deepest part of my my heart.
It lives there.
It still continues to rain.
The tear collects at the corner of my eyes.
The water that flushes the bad.
Buffaloes in ponds and children gambol in pits.
The fries for snacks.
The newness that vegetation reflects.
Then the pining of lovers.
The tale of which fills me with awe.
A personal account of which confuses me.
Just as much as it refuses to leave me.
The rain that dropped by my door last July.
The clouds of which still hover my sky.