The Monsoons Poem by Miethi Goswami

The ire of the sky breaks out,
And the elated clouds quake and shout;

The clamour of the heaven,
Preceded by a purple and silver shroud,
Bursts out into the tears of the Gods aloud;

The awaited rain lashes down,
And pelts the barren land getting it drowned;

The doors and the windows are latched and chained,
Till the thudding on the rooves is considerably waned;

While the alleys and the lanes
get obscurely drunk,
The old men snugly secure the bunk;

The cherubs and the brats,
Excited 'bout the season,
Paper boats sailing all around,
Are enough of a reason;

The earthy aroma,
And the mango blossom,
Are gifted to the monsoons to embosom;

The wrinkled faces of the farmers
and their sweats of toil,
Turn to satiated smiles
as they touch the wet soil;

All rejoice,
From young to old;
As the bleak land
once again bears the swaying gold.