The drizzle-mizzle sings sad songs for me
In the July skies lie the unfallen rain chastely
In its artlessness has lost the melody
how, one time when falling, it used to be a lullaby
Splattering on the tin roofs endlessly.
Thunders of bullets, showers of blood, the abrupt eerie silence
The past is otiose with the wasted memories' presence
Yet the memories are still the present tense
In the storm we have not failed to sense
Of wretched common existence and cold suspense.
Come hither, and see the shower is so erratic
while there are dreams about grabbing the happiness basic
But come rain or shine, the air is always heartsick
The only thing that can work now, sure enough, is a little magic
Else the monsoon makes life more frantic.