it is hot here
and for weeks there had been no rain,
dusty roads, feeling sick,
moans of windy days,
and humid nights,
sweat and tears, and lonely talks
despite, children sing,
faith sticks like epoxy to a broken wing
when leaves fall upon the touch of the passing wind,
i hear the music of the coming rain,
a symphony of dry leaves,
finally finding their places on the soil theater
where i am
part of the audience awed and
clapping...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem