M Minakshi Devi
In the drying sand on the firing land
Where the rays of the Sun,
Makes everything crumble and burn.
The forest is ripped and dull.
There are butterflies around wilted flowers
That has ripped wings and  downturned colours.
The sickly thin cattle browse in vain.
The rice mill is silent, and the wind blows a fiery gust.
Oh! Nothing will be more exquisite than the silver scream
Of the starved earth awakening to the thistles of rain,
That will act as a fast relieving balm
Over the blistering summer wound.
Many lips muttering prayers to the rain god
To quench the earth of her thirst when the season's rain descends,
As smooth as the running water down the glistening rock of the woods,
As soothing as the ray of warmth in the spring.
And behold,the clouds seemingly heavy and grey,
Day after day come flashing lights and thunders, but rainless still.
Will the hunger pangs for a downpour be met?
Or, Is it just another cloud drifting with the winds?