My Village - Monsoon Flood
The skies now dark with swollen grief,
Rain lashes roofs beyond belief.
The monsoon comes not soft, but roaring seas,
It spares no home and trees, nor man, nor child.
Before my eyes - truth too raw to bear,
A mother staggered through the despair,
Clutching her sack above the flood,
Her last few grains, her sweat, her blood.
The fields we tilled with calloused hands,
Now lie beneath these muddy bands.
The rice we prayed for, sowed with song,
Drowned in waters deep and strong.
Our homes of mud, our roofs of hay,
Were swept like leaves along the way.
At night, we huddle, cold and still,
The lamps are dead, the pots don't fill.
The roads are lost, just rivers now,
We wade knee-deep where carts once ploughed.
The school stands empty, lost in gloom,
The children's laughter swallowed soon.
The river eats away the banks each night,
The trees give way without a fight.
One more strip of land, one more dream gone,
The river hums in endless song.
Even the smallest life must flee -
I saw them climb a lonely tree:
Worms and insects, piled up high,
Clinging to life under a dark sky.
Their tiny bodies stacked in fear,
A sad sign of their life's struggle here
And still, we stand. We start again.
We wipe our tears, we plant through pain.
The rain will stop, the rivers will slow,
But our hopes and hearts will always grow.
- Phin Jiu.
Copyright ©
Phinjiu Basumatary
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