Sadashivan Nair Poet Prose Poetry

There Is Always Monsoon, After the Scorching Summer Heat

Wet eyes dripping drops,
Reddened in the heat of grief;
'O' baby, my baby,
Why were you born,
In this poor man's house?
Nothing is in order,
No stable job in hand; 
The work I know is out dated,
In this modern world;
In my past, 
People lived for people,
Now is material world;
We live in dark,
In this bright world;
Daughter stood in anguish,
Gazed at father's face;
Hugged him solacing,
"Oh dad, how lucky I am,
Born as your daughter;
You are shore of flowing lake,
Refuge of our peaceful home;
There is always monsoon, 
After the scorching summer heat;
Poverty is a challenge 
We will learn to vanquish over time;
We shall overcome, 
When we all learn to live,
With what we have; 
Job is job none new or old,
It's all about when, why and,
For whom you carry;
As cobbler can't sell, 
His hand stitched shoes,
To a client who has taste
Of brand named shoes;
No money, no luxury 
Can buy love in life;
The serenity and contentment,
Strew sweet love in home;

© Sadashivan Nair

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