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Poem

From a distance,
the incessant chant of monsoon from south west,
sounds like an old witch practicing her craft,
Turning the sleeping dark cloud to a wandering gale,

On its arrival must the sun lose its seeming joy,
As she roars as a warrior in great toil,
And the blue sky covers it face with dark veil,
To hide from the shame of its impending tears,

The sparkling effect of the raging charges,
Brings a fearful sight of great lightening,
A wonder of the mighty mother nature,
Throwing a tantrum to some of its weak creatures,

As the sky's long-held tears begin to flow,
The earth has no option than to open wide her mouth,
As seedlings prepare their minds to grow,
And plants celebrate the cold shower as they sprout,

The temperature drops in honor of the great monsoon,
The cold air spews through the joists of the poor as it blows,
The sheltered rich rejoice in sleeping comfort,
Yet it means a great mare to the homeless vagabonds,

The incessant chant of monsoon from the South West,
The witchcraft of good and evil to the biosphere,
A sign of hope for the long waited winter,
But painful end to the summer's joy

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