Monsoon

The fresh smell of mud,
The bright sun shut away,
The soliciting clouds of grey.

Yearning for a moment of reprieve,
From the soul-sucking humidity,
And the heretic winds of the politic.

The first puddles of hope,
The desperation of gridlocked traffic,
The leap over streams of floating garbage.

People scurry for safety,
Stray mongrels find an abandonment for cover,
The mighty crows on coconut trees stand drenched.

Masquerading streets with reeking lust,
The parvenu potholes and evading bumps,
Patterns of wishes of a forgotten someone.

Trees of tampered sway, gutted by the gust,
And rooted among pallbearers of yesterday,
The rat holes are long lost in the fray.

The first signs of the monsoon,
The windows beat in tempting joy,
Only to be locked and bolted tight.

The clouds across the sky,
Skimpy with silver lines,
Parade in with aromas, delinquently.

As the temperature drops,
And rustic hopes creep over homes,
The clogged drains, look on derelict.

Hope.

The Light Shines The Brightest