Hark, the whisper of a forgotten land,
Melancholia swims on the airy domes of slums, that embank,
The bountiful floor, as river Goddesses veer.
On this cold lonely night, Gods too shiver.

How hath fury harvested the land,
Of her innate beauty, in deluge so grand
On the makeshift boat, innocence galore
Some fresh water for the lips, they implore.
On the hospice beds, flesh abound
Swept away from home, from life,
From the fertile ground.

Landslide slip like lace on a marriage bed,
Lovers unite like mother earth and her suitor, rain.
Gaia helpless like an infant clasping a solitary tit.
Weather forecast nigh, more rain in her truest grit.
Hark, the cries, “help” deserting stubborn watery lips,
In panic loom the doomed hips.

And still through torrents, the first sign of hope
For the kites to flutter, freedom to elope.
Renewal is an orb of a fiery star
Slitting through nimbus clouds afar
And water will drain, sink and evaporate
“Oh Mercy” cries aloud, this land of spate.

And all is forgotten, as fortunes sweep
Until next year, when again, the monsoons weep.

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