These days,
I long to write a book of rains.
Rains are like mural wounds,
from which happiness flows
speaking to us in the same tongue
but in various languages of seasons.
Humming in myriad sounds of wild geese in clear sky
Morning rains are seeds of life ?
pouring over women in parched lands
who scramble to collect forgotten love song in pots and pitchers.
Afternoon rains are
old poems on a blank page; turning docile, stammering
at the knife point of murderers before they crawl back into
sun-roofed mud houses for untimely siesta.
Evening rains come in dancing figures—
stark naked peacocks with sapphire anklets shiver
in the fox’s startled eye corner—
The secret illusion
of another sky bursting out on the distant indigo hills.
Night rains are like embroidered
Brows of courtesans with rounded breasts;
spurting incessantly into deep-throated cones
slaying fears of liaison with veiled joys from moon light till dew light.
A mynah on my morning prayer mat sings;
I am raining, I am writing…